Scions of the Inquisition
by OnyxDrake
Summary: The seasons turn, and a new generation of lovers, rogues, mages and dreamers follows in the footsteps of those who went before. How have the years treated the companions? What lies behind the mystery of the missing Inquisitor Lavellan? What adventures will the scions of the Inquisition undertake?
1. Chapter 1

_A letter, from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danica Harding, 9:42_

 _Dear Danica_

 _I trust this missive finds you well, and I apologise that it has taken me so long to respond to your most recent communication. Mother and Father, are well, I hope? And how are the twins? By now you should have heard about the events in the Fallow Mire, and our victory, though at great cost to the Inquisition's forces. I cannot even tell you how grateful I am to have returned to Skyhold for the debriefing; weeks in the ceaseless rain have rather – dare I say it – dampened my enthusiasm for certain regions._

 _The less said about our encounters with the unquiet dead, the better. They were_ everywhere _, sister, but we soon discovered that their appearance was tied in with our proximity to the water. By the time our Inquisitor arrived, we were well established, but her presence was a true comfort. Between her, The Iron Bull, the rather dashing Tevinter mage Dorian (yes, yes, I know you think I'm crazy for even saying that), and of course that Solas guy._

 _Well… Let me tell you a bit of gossip. You know the Commander's been sweet on our illustrious leader, right? It would seem that while she's away from Skyhold, she and … I don't even know how to phrase this delicately… Horrors upon horrors, the rain actually stopped one evening, and the party had returned from their geological survey. I had my break, and had felt the need to go for a walk – not far, mind you, because it's really not that safe._

 _So there I was, near an outcropping of stone, when I heard a murmur of voices. Curious as to who would be out there, I went to investigate – you can never be too careful – and who should I find but our glorious leader and, well, that apostate elf. Who would have imagined it, right? He's so bloody aloof half the time. Barely has two words to say to anyone unless it's a lecture about stuff that breaks your mind. He had her backed up against the rock and I'd never have imagined that he would care to kiss someone so passionately. Like a starved wolf!_

 _Needless to say, I returned to camp immediately. Couldn't look either of them quite in the eye when they came back – separately I might add, and five minutes apart – but I caught them stealing glances at each other for the rest of the night. You know what they say – once a thing is seen, it can never be unseen. I don't have the heart to tell the Commander even though I've had plenty of opportunities (and he keeps on about my own lack of love life). I thought he and the Inquisitor were an item, but evidently there's quite a turbulent storm brewing beneath our Inquisitor's calm exterior. You won't breathe a word of this to anyone, right? Can you imagine the scandal? If he found out, it would break him, and he's been through so much already._

 _Other than that, I don't have much to report. Nothing new with regard to the continued liaison between Cook and Captain Trask. But there is an added complication. Did I tell you he got Felicity in the family way? Cook doesn't know yet, and there's going to be pitched battles in the kitchens once that comes to light. Not much longer now, and I'm not even sure Josie will be able to smooth that one over the way she honeys words for some of those Orlesian nobles. I hope I'm here to catch the juicy bits._

 _I promise I'll start writing more regularly now that I don't have to be in that damp place. Maker's breath, I'm glad that mission is over. I've lost two perfectly good pairs of boots to mildew._

 _All my love_

 _Lace_

Chapter 1

Skyhold, 9:49

"But I don't wanna be the Darkspawn again," Seith wailed.

Gerda, bigger than him, and with far longer arms, slapped his butt and ran away shrieking laughter with her sister Shey hard on her heels.

Giggles from atop the hay bales betrayed where Grayden had been hiding this entire time, and Seith spun to face his friend. "It's not fair! I always end up being the Darkspawn and you guys are always the Wardens!"

"Maybe if you ran faster you could also be a Warden," Grayden called down.

"There's supposed to be more than one Darkspawn in this game," Seith muttered, his chest tight with disappointment. It wasn't his fault he was the littlest of their group, and that he couldn't always keep up with his friends.

He'd have to start hunting Shey and Gerda in the meantime. Grayden would come down from the hay bales as soon as Seith was out of sight, and then Seith would have to keep looking over his shoulder, because Grayden loved sneaking up behind him to give him a fright.

Apart from the garden, where all the herbs grew in wonderful tangles, the Skyhold stables were Seith's favourite place, and when he was lucky, Stablemaster Gedling sometimes allowed him to sit astride some of the quieter mounts. He wasn't quite old enough to help grooming just yet. Another year, Stablemaster Gedling said. And if Seith ate all his vegetables like a good boy. Poo to the vegetables.

So long as they all kept away from the dracolisks and didn't get underfoot, Seith and his friends were welcome to run around and play to their hearts' content.

Seith sneaked into a passage where the tack and storage rooms were. It was his least favourite part of the stables, mainly because it was so very dark. The air here was dry, and heady with the scent of leather and alfalfa, and he didn't like going beyond the point where the passage turned a sharp left. However this was often where Shey and Gerda hid because they knew he hated that spot.

His heart felt like it was bouncing in his throat. If Gerda and Shey hid here, they were being rather quiet. The stone floor was cool beneath his bare feet, and wisps of loose straw slid across the gritty surface. Just a quick glimpse, and then he'd run back to where they stabled the Dalish all-breds, because there was one stall that was currently empty, which would make a perfect camp...

The shadows grew thicker, and Seith swallowed back the choking fear. Three more steps...

A weird ringing began in his ears, that grew deeper and slower with each breath, like the beating of great wings.

Father had always told him it wasn't the darkness that could get him, that Skyhold was the safest place in all of Thedas. There were no demons here. His mother had closed all the big rifts... Nothing to be scared of.

 _Seith_...

He jerked to a halt with a gasp. Had he heard someone actually call his name? It wasn't a voice he recognised.

"Gerda?" he all but whimpered. "Sh-sh-shey?"

The shadows pulsed before his eyes, coiling and bubbling like smoke. Just pretend-pretend, like all the times he'd told Father about the way the shadows on the ceiling seemed to bulge just as he tried to go to sleep.

"Your eyes are playing tricks on you," his father would say. "There are no demons or spirits in Skyhold. Go to sleep. You are safe."

But it was easier to believe he was safe when he was tucked into a warm bed, with his father downstairs in the chamber poring over his maps, papers and things.

It was not so easy when Seith was creeping down a dark, spooky passage just to prove to his friends that he was not afraid.

 _Seith_...

He was sure someone had called his name from within the deeper dark, the sound drawn out and raw, like thread pulled through the eye of a needle, more felt than heard. Seith's nerve failed him, and on trembling legs he dashed back toward the warmth of daylight. He didn't dare look back for fear of what he might see... Long, scaly arms perhaps, questing for him with razor-tipped nightmare fingers. Anything. Or nothing. But he didn't want to be there to find out.

Yet once he hit the first patch of sunlight streaming through the windows by the stalls where the harts were kept, he halted and looked back.

Nothing, of course. Just the gloomy passage that seemed heavier in its presence than any other. The shadow there seemed thicker, like mud, that if he breathed in enough of it he'd start choking.

Besides, there must be better places for the girls to hide, where he could see whether he could tag someone else to play the Darkspawn for a while.

"Gotcha!" Grayden shrieked as he tackled Seith.

The two boys went down in a tangle of limbs. It was pointless trying to win at wrestling against Grayden, who was two years older than Seith, and far stronger than him, but that didn't stop him from giving his best. Sometimes being smaller helped. He could wriggle out of trouble.

Only Grayden had him hopelessly pinned, and was digging cruel fingers into his ribs.

"Let's see if we can tickle the filthy Darkspawn to death!" Grayden crowed.

All Seith could do was cry and scream with laughter. He could barely breathe.

"Mercy! Merceee!"

"You better give him a break," Gerda said. "Just now he pees himself an' the Commander will give us a wallopin'"

Grayden stopped his torture and Seith could draw a full breath. His sides hurt, and the older boy was heavy enough to be uncomfortable.

"You okay?" Grayden asked.

Seith nodded. " _Gerroff_ me."

"Nug-breath."

Grayden pinched Seith's side but he did get off him, and Seith sat up, hugging himself.

"You're still the Darkspawn," Gerda said and Shey snickered.

"Can't we play another game? Please?" Seith asked.

An object clipped the side of Seith's head. Grayden still twisted around to see where the thing had been flung from when more nug droppings smacked him full in the face.

"We're under attack!" Shey yelled. "To the loft! To the loft!"

That was all instruction Seith needed, and he scrambled to his feet. If Shey was freaking out, it could mean only one thing: Delon and his gang were paying a visit.

"Get the knife-ear!" someone shouted. Mostly likely Aiden, who, like Delon, was always looking for ways to be nasty to Seith.

The boys were on Grayden and Seith before they had a chance to get far, and Shey and Gerda knew better than to try intervene because the odds against a gang of five were not good.

Biting and kicking didn't help when their enemy had them outnumbered and overpowered. They grabbed Seith and held him fast while his assailants smeared dung all over his face, into his hair and jammed even more into his clothes.

Seith kept his mouth and eyes shut this time.

Grayden was still yelling like a stuck nug, but Seith went limp. It was no use fighting.

"Stinking knife-ear, you're not so special now, are you?" Delon spat at him. "Think you can run to your father again?"

"Toss him in the trough," Will said.

"They shoulda drowned the rat when he was born," Aiden added, and the grip on Seith loosened somewhat as the boys shifted to get a better grasp on him.

Seith took that moment to jerk himself free. Fingers snatched, fabric ripped. He might be scrawny and small, but he was also quick, and the past two years' torment at the hands of Delon and his friends had taught Seith to make use of any advantage he could wrest from their wicked hands.

Grayden dashed in the direction of the tack room, which left the main entrance to Seith. Best to scatter. He ran, and the bullies were right on his heels.

"Grab him, quick! Before he gets to the –"

The stable yard, of course. The stable hands might not interfere when Delon and his gang preyed on them, but Stablemaster Gedling would stop them. Which was half the reason why Seith tried to stay as close to the stables when they could help it.

This didn't stop Delon from trying, however. Seith ran and dodged, and gave a small whoop when he heard someone fall behind him. The archway leading into the stable yard loomed. He was going to make it... Would be able to get to where his father might be training some of the new recruits...

Only he collided heavily with a short, stocky person.

"Oooph!" All the breath left Seith in a rush as he sprawled on ground, dazed.

"Woah, there, Cricket," said the man, trying to calm his mount – a rather stocky mountain-bred pony.

Then a hand was held out to him, and Seith blinked up into the friendly face of a dwarf he'd not seen around Skyhold before.

"Upsy-daisy, little man," he said.

Seith took the dwarf's hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Of Delon and the others there was no sign, but then Stablemaster Gedling was standing right next to the friendly dwarf and glaring at Seith something fierce.

"Are you up to your usual tricks again, young ser?" the stablemaster asked.

"N-n-no, Stablemaster," Seith stammered.

"No harm done." The dwarf waved a hand before his face but he was still smiling. "Stinky could use a bath, though."

Seith's cheeks flushed with his embarrassment, and he grew conscious of his smell and how dirty he was, down to the filth crusted under his feet. Nug dung. Yuck.

"Apologies, ser, just one of the Skyhold brats, ser," Stablemaster Gedling said. "I'll have words with his father. It won't happen again."

"That won't be necessary," the dwarf said then winked at Seith. "You should have seen some of the shenanigans me and my friends caught up to when we were this age. Come to think of it... Not much has changed. Who's your dad?"

"Commander Rutherford, ser," Seith answered smartly. He straightened his back a little and dared to make eye contact with the dwarf. His father was going to kill him when he heard how he was bothering important people.

For this dwarf was clearly someone important, judging by his fine clothing and the big crossbow he carried slung over his shoulder. Gold earrings glinted.

"Your father..." The dwarf narrowed his eyes at Seith, his expression turned to puzzlement. "You're Teniël's little one?" The dwarf frowned.

"Yes." Inwardly, Seith squirmed, and darted glances about to see whether he could escape. People always reacted strangely to him when he said who his mother was.

A tall, dark-haired man with a beard came out of one of the stalls. "Ah, Varric, thought I heard you."

"Hawke!" The dwarf's attention shifted to the bearded man, his momentary puzzlement replaced with warmth. "Thought I saw you up ahead. How've you been?"

That was Seith's chance to slip away and try do something about his dishevelled state.

His father unfortunately took a dim view on Seith's appearance and smell later that afternoon when he returned to their chambers. "That's the third tunic you've torn this week," the Commander grumbled. "We're you purposefully rolling in nug dung?"

"It was just an accident," Seith answered.

"Just like it was an accident that you were dumped in nug dung last week. If you are having problems with Captain Trask's boy again, tell me. I'll have words with him in any case."

Seith winced as his father scrubbed a little too hard with the washcloth. The water in the bath was getting cold already, but it was a big improvement on the initial rinse of cold water the Commander had used to get rid of the worst of the dirt.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself, young man?"

Seith bit the inside of his cheeks and shook his head. He didn't like seeing his father so angry, the way his mouth pulled into a line and straightened the scar on his lip. It made him look ferocious.

"Gedling tells me they were calling you 'knife-ear'. Is that true? You know I won't have any of that here."

All Seith could do was look away. His throat felt thick. He didn't want his father to get involved. Again. Sure, the Commander would go talk to Captain Trask about Delon, and everything would be fine for a week or so, but then Delon would start all over again. First, snide little comments here and there. Then, throwing apple cores or crusts of old bread hard enough that they stung. A push here. A shove there.

He'd start going on about how Seith thought himself better because of who his mother had been, or what his father did, and then it would just get worse.

"We were playing Wardens and Darkspawn," was all Seith said. "Then we started throwing nug dung. It was nothing."

"It's not nothing," his father said, and he suddenly looked so sad, Seith felt all the more horrible for not telling all the truth.

"You stay out of trouble 'til dinner time now, you hear?"

Seith slunk up the ladder to the loft bedroom, careful to show his father that he was not careless like that time a week ago when he'd almost fallen because he had been in a hurry to get to his friends. He would play with his toy soldiers, and be mouse quiet. Yet he couldn't help but stare out the window for a long while to watch the light change on the snow-laden mountain peaks.

It was at times like these that he wondered what it was like having a mother.


	2. Chapter 2

A letter from Lace Harding, to her sister Danica Harding, 9:43

 _Dear Danica_

 _Thanks for your last letter. I'm feeling quite homesick at the moment. Has Silk whelped yet? Have the twins decided whether they will be apprenticed to that jeweller in Denerim? I know Mother's going to say I need to take leave at some point to reconnect with the family, but with all the craziness of this Corypheus business, surely she'd understand it's simply not possible? I sometimes don't think we'll ever be free of trouble. If it's not Orlais it's Tevinter, and it's us common folk who get get caught in the middle picking up the pieces._

 _You wanted to know what it was like in the Arbor Wilds, well, that's another region I'm glad to see the back of. It's never quiet there, and never in my life have I ever felt as if the trees simply disapproved of the fact that I scurried beneath their roots. Let me not even get started on the spiders, dear sister. You don't want to know except you get used to emptying out your boots before you put them on, and that's all I'll say on the subject._

 _Our Inquisitor has been moping terribly. Even Varric can't get a laugh out of her in the evenings. She just stares moodily into the flames. Won't even play a hand of Wicked Grace. Goes to bed early as well. She didn't bring Solas with her this time. In fact, from what Dorian's said to me, Green-eyes and Baldie aren't talking at all – beyond any topics related to the Inquisition's activities, that is. The Commander is deliriously happy, of course. Completely oblivious to any undercurrents too. He's moved into her quarters, or should I rather say she's ordered him to move into her quarters with him. At a glance they seem a happy couple, but when she smiles, the joy doesn't reach her eyes._

 _Yes, yes, I know I'm waxing poetic about our Inquisitor. I'm also well aware that she'd never notice me, and that I should return Dagna's advances, as you've said, but still, a girl can dream, can't she?_

 _But to get back to that horrible place out in the Wilds, I'm not looking forward to our next mission there. We're to assist a few research teams from Val Royeaux set up camps. Seems everyone's clamoring to go hunt for ancient Elvhen artefacts there now that the Inquisition has stamped its boot prints. You can pick up just about any rock there and discover that it was once part of a pillar or fallen statue. Place gives me the creeps, if you ask me. Made Dorian's moustache wilt. Varric loved teasing him about that, as you can well imagine._

 _I wish I could send you a more cheerful missive, but things are really building up to a final confrontation. Everyone's talking about it now. Everyone can feel it._

 _Please give Mother an extra hug from me, will you?_

 _Love_

 _Lace_

# # #

Chapter 2

Trees crowded the forest, the trunks so big even three grown men holding hands could not encircle them, and monstrous mushrooms the size of dinner plates thrust up from fallen giants. It was the dream again, the one he kept having of the elf lady who was lost in the forest.

Seith always seemed to hover above her, slightly behind and following like a bumblebee tied to a string.

Always it was the same – she battled with the tangles of creepers, scrambled over rocks and ducked under branches, her long black hair filled with twigs and leaves and catching in low-hanging branches.

The first time Seith had this dream, he had tried to call out to the lady, but there was never any sound. He could see, and follow, but he could not hear or make himself heard.

The scariest was when there were monsters, giant spiders, great bears and other things for which he had no name. Sometimes he cried out to warn her that she was being followed. Not that it ever did any good.

This time she had found her way into a clearing and turned in one spot, her mouth working as she silently called a name over and over again.

Seith awoke with a gasp, his pillows wet. He hated crying in his sleep.

# # #

The day seemed to be made of ill omens. Mother Elaine shouted at him for drawing pictures in his books instead of doing his sums, and later, when their morning classes were over, his father had given him extra chores, which involved running messages around Skyhold. It was as if the Commander was keeping him away from his friends on purpose, to make up for the day before's misadventure.

The only good thing he found in this was that he got to see what was afoot. And there was definitely something stirring, because more people than usual were arriving in groups, and there was talking and laughing and a general commotion of servants rushing to and fro with bags, baskets and piles of laundry.

Snatches of conversation spoke of a conclave, and that the Divine Victoria would put in an appearance. He even had a message to take to Cassandra, who had been in a meeting with Josie. Neither had paid him much attention, which made him sad. Normally Josie had a candy for him, and Cassandra would ruffle his hair and ask him if he was being a good boy for his father.

But he got to see the dwarf Varric again, who had taken a room in the guest suites overlooking the garden, and he hung about asking questions.

Where was he from? _Kirkwall_. Why was he here? _They were meeting to choose the new Inquisitor_.

Seith didn't need to ask why. Varric caught him glancing at the statue below in the garden, where crystal graces twined at the base of the figure carved from a glossy stone. He liked the name of the stone – serpentine – and often played with the word on his tongue.

The woman gazed towards the sky, her left arm outstretched in the same way he'd seen pictures of his mother in the paintings and tapestries, only frozen in stone forever in her role of closing a rift.

"Do you miss her?" Varric asked.

"I was only a baby when she went away," Seith replied. How could he explain otherwise? He didn't have the right words for the odd hollow he had in his chest when he occasionally sat by the statue's plinth and gazed up into the dead, stone eyes.

Varric told him a story then, one he hadn't heard tell before, of how they'd gone to the Hissing Wastes and how his mother had saved Varric yet again when the evil Venatori had them surrounded, how she'd opened her own rift right when they'd thought all was lost. He spoke of how Teniël had sung old Dalish songs round the campfire, and how she'd spent hours choosing Seith's name when she knew she was expecting him not long after they defeated dread Corypheus.

"You look a lot like her, you know," Varric said. "It's quite uncanny."

"What do you mean?" Seith asked.

The man gave a dry laugh."Oh, Stinky, you probably make your dad remember far too much."

Seith had other tasks, so he couldn't stay much longer. He liked Varric, who didn't talk to him as if he were a baby. Even if he refused to call him anything else but Stinky. But then he'd already figured out that Varric had funny names for everyone. He liked his father's the best – Curly – but he didn't think it would be a good idea to start calling his father that.

The day would have been fine except for Seith taking some of the passages that led past the kitchen – a shortcut back to the tower room where he and his father stayed.

He didn't know who was more surprised, himself or Delon, who was carrying a big bucket of slops he almost dropped.

The two boys froze, staring at each other.

Then a slow, cruel smile twisted Delon's lips. "My, my... Look what we have here."

Seith swallowed a squeak, and took a step back, his blood turned to slush. Not now. Not again. He'd hoped to have a few days before he had to face Delon again.

He spun about and pelted back the way he had come just as the bigger boy made a grab at him. About half a dozen strides down the passage the chase began in earnest, and out of desperation Seith jagged a sudden right into a doorway. The room was narrow and the only light source came from a tiny slit of an arched window high up. Shelves filled to overflowing with books covered every wall, and Seith made for a lumpy old armchair that stood in the far corner. Just enough space existed for him to wedge himself between the back of the chair and the bookshelf, and he fully expected Delon to drag him out.

Only nothing of the sort happened.

Delon's nasty laughter filled the room then the door slammed shut.

The sound of the latch snicking to had a horrible finality to it.

At first Seith crouched where he was, the edge of the shelf digging painfully into the small of his back. The silence was heavy and musty, and his breaths tore ragged edges in the air.

Someone would come find him, wouldn't they? When he didn't show up for dinner, Father would get worried. The Commander would turn Skyhold upside down looking for him, right?

But Seith still went to try the door anyway. Who had left it open in the first place?

His father had already told him how many times to stay out of the unused parts of Skyhold. Not safe, he'd said. There were places where walls might come down to squash naughty little boys who went poking around where they shouldn't. The stonemasons hadn't yet repaired all the huge, gaping holes that yawned down the cliff sides. Sometimes Seith had gone to look and had felt instantly dizzy when he saw how far away the ground was.

Seith slammed his fists against the unyielding wood. He tried the handle – stiff with disuse.

 _Must. Get. Out._

Even if Delon hadn't slipped the latch in place, Seith would have struggled to open the door. Now his situation was hopeless, and even though he wanted to be a big boy and not cry, the tears threatened.

What was it that made Delon hate him so much? Delon's father didn't get on with Seith's. He'd seen them having angry words a few times. Also, Delon was rude to the other elves at Skyhold and said nasty things when the adults weren't around to tell them that calling someone a knife-ear was bad.

None of that would help him now, and though he bruised his hands smacking the wood, and his voice grew raw from calling for help, none of his efforts delivered any results. Very few people used these passages. He could be here a day. Three days. A week...

Seith eventually crouched with his back to the door, and sniffled for a while. All he wanted was to be outside, but no amount of wishing was going to change things. For a while he rested his head on his arms, and tried not to think about the hunger eating his tummy nor how thirsty he was. His throat was dry and sore, and his nose was blocked which made it difficult to breathe.

Seith wasn't at first certain that he was alone. Slowly he sat up and looked to his right, where a young man dressed in raggedy patchwork crouched. Most of his face was hidden by messy blond hair, and he was wearing a big hat that made it difficult to look him in the eye.

The young man spoke. "He is sad, I want to help. He calls me from the other place. The unkind boy taunts him because of all the stories he believes. I can make the unkind boy stop but he's still young. He can still learn his words are sharp daggers. His father is a poisoned well."

"Who're you?" Seith squeaked, and shifted to the side.

"You're sad, you don't like it here in the dark. I felt. I came. I can help you. I can't help her. Not where she is now. But she would want you to be safe."

Before Seith could ask any more, the young man got up and placed his hand on the door handle. From the other side of the barrier came the soft clink of the latch being lifted. Then the stranger pulled, and the door opened.

"You can go to your father. It is safe now."

Tentatively, Seith crept out of the mouldy old room. He paused just past the threshold, where he looked right and left down the passage, then right again. No one. He puffed out a breath to get rid of the heaviness in his lungs then turned to thank the young man.

Then jerked back a step in fright. There was no one there. The horrible book room was empty but Seith was not going to go in there a second time. He ran and ran, and this time he went straight to the tower room. The sun was about to slip behind the snowy peaks, and Seith was already late; Father would've wanted him to clean up for dinner by now.

Breathless, he scrambled up the stairs, past startled sentries and a young couple holding hands, until he flew into the chamber.

Father was chatting to Varric, smiling even, as if nothing had been amiss the whole afternoon that Seith had been locked in the old book room.

"Father! Father!" he blurted, and his entire story tumbled past his lips, about Delon chasing him, about being trapped, and about the strange boy with the hat. Better to tell everything, because it had all been so strange, so frightening.

"Did I see a ghost, Father? Gerda was telling me about a grey lady Cook saw when she went to fetch turnips."

Seith had expected his father to get cross about Delon or perhaps even laugh and tell him he was imagining things. Instead he and Varric both went a little pale, and stared wordlessly at each other.

Varric spoke first. "Cole went missing round about the same time as _she_ did, didn't he?"

Father gave a brief nod then got up. "Come on, Seith." He sounded all forced-cheerful. "It's time we get you that bath. It's nearly time for supper."


	3. Chapter 3

_A Letter from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danice Harding, 9:43._

 _Dear Danica_

 _I apologise for not writing sooner (goodness, I seem to be starting most of my letters with apologies lately, aren't I?) How're the twins doing in Denerim? Have they given Jorg grey hair yet? I can only imagine their inquisitive natures will drive the man wild._

 _By now the news of Corypheus' defeat must've reached you. The celebrating, let me tell you, it's been absolutely crazy. I didn't sleep for three days. Also, never challenge the Iron Bull to a drinking contest. I found out the hard way._

 _And yes, if you must know, Dagna and I are together now. She's really sweet. Funny how someone can always be right under your nose but until you make the effort to reach out and open yourself to the possibility, that the love grows slowly, like prophet's laurel, but when the flowers bloom, they are a joy. It's like that._

 _You know, sister, I wonder how it is for our Inquisitor now. It's been two weeks since the final battle. The Commander is absolutely besotted with her; he's even talking about arranging for both their families to come visit in Skyhold so that they can hold an official ceremony._

 _The companions – at least the ones who were regularly out on missions when the Apostate was around – they don't talk about what they know. I push my thoughts and opinions deep, but they're twisted and sad._

 _Especially now that the big news is out._

 _Inquisitor Teniël Lavellan is pregnant! Can you believe it? No doubt news flies faster than I write letters, so I expect you'll have heard by now. If not – you heard it from me first!_

 _I happened to look up toward the Inquisitor's balcony one morning when I was leaving at some horrid hour. It was that weird magic time, when the sky is just turning to ash, and I swear I saw her there gazing to where the sun rises. You know, I can't help but wonder what really went on between her and Solas. But now everyone's abuzz about new beginnings, and the Commander let slip the other day that he never in a thousand years imagined that he'd ever be a father. I guess all is well that ends well, and Teniël will get over her hopeless infatuation with Baldie._

 _Send my love to Mother and Father, I realise I'm running out of paper. Will write again next week._

 _Love_

 _Lace_

###

Chapter 3

Skyhold, 9:49

The next day seemed to return to normal, though Seith and the other children could hear the general buzz of excitement beyond the walls of their classroom. Mother Elaine did her best to focus them on making sums and letters, but they kept darting glances towards the door and windows every time there was a disturbance outside. It sounded as if all of Skyhold was upside down with all the people running to and fro.

They had just escaped after noon when a small delegation from the Tevinter Imperium arrived. Seith and Shey sat on the wall by the stable yard watching as the visitors dismounted, stable hands holding the bridles of lathered mounts.

"That's one of the original companions." Shey pointed at the olive-skinned man with a silly moustache, who wore dark robes.

"Dorian. My father's spoken about it him. Is that him?" Seith squinted against the light. His father had said how Dorian had always cheated at card games. Badly. Then tried to pretend that it was supposed to be due to some odd rules that no one had ever heard of before.

The man seemed taller than some of the stories suggested, but not as merry. He glanced about as if he were looking for someone, then he sighed and shook his head, and followed a servant who led him and his fellows up the stairs to the great hall.

"Father says he was Mother's best friend, that she saw he was a good person when everyone else said she must chase him away," Seith said.

"He's still a Vint scum." Shey frowned.

"How do you know?" Seith asked. "Mother was the one who made everyone be nice to everyone else when she was alive."

"The Vints are still bad. They didn't stop those Venatori last month when they raided. My mother says lots of our soldiers were injured trying to protect some traders."

Seith nodded at that. Shey had a point. They were about to go look for Gerda and Grayden, when yet another group arrived in the stableyard. Dusty and weary, the dozen or so soldiers marched up, but there was no mistaking the giant who strode at their head.

"That's the Iron Bull," Seith whispered at Shey.

Her eyes had gone wide. "Maker's breath, Seith. That's my father."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"You lied then. You said you didn't know your father."

Shey smacked him on his head hard enough for it to sting. "That's not a lie, nug-head. I said I didn't know my father because he left before I was born, so I never got to know him."

"Then why didn't you tell me who he was?" Seith couldn't stop staring at the giant's bulging muscles. What had happened to his eye that he had to wear a patch? And those horns… He looked so dangerous yet he was talking and laughing to the people in the stableyard as they unloaded the wagon that had come with their stuff.

"I didn't think it was important to tell you," Shey murmured. Then she slipped off the wall. "I've gotta go tell Gerda."

"But you don't look like your father," Seith said. "You don't have horns. Your skin is normal colour."

"That's not how it works, nug-head. When humans and _others_ get together, it's always the human side that comes out. Mother says so."

"I'm not a nug-head."

"You're acting like one." She scampered off before he could get any more information out of her.

Seith sat and pondered. He'd always known Gerda and Shey were sisters – but they had different mothers. They looked like regular humans, though. Perhaps a bit bigger… and stronger… But they didn't have horns and grey skin. Not like that warrior. Not like any of the Qunari who'd stopped by Skyhold on rare occasions. Gerda and Shey both had blond hair and rosy cheeks. That fact bothered him, because _his_ father was human, and his mom had been an elf, and yet Seith had ears like any other elf he'd ever seen.

A strange, prickly feeling crept up on him and he pulled his hands over his ears, feeling the sharper tips.

 _It's always the human side that comes out_ …

What did that mean? His mother had definitely been, well… The Inquisitor. An elf. Clan Lavellan. Everyone said so. But what did that say about his father? Who was human… There must've been a mistake. Shey's mother probably had it wrong, but what if she didn't? Seith didn't want to think about that too hard.

# # #

Dinner was served in the Great Hall that night. The servants had placed out long trestle tables that had been covered in starched linen so white it hurt Seith's eyes. Torches and candles blazed, and someone had made colourful flower arrangements to decorate each table. There was to be no running around with his friends this evening, Father had told him. Instead Seith had to sit at the big table with all the adults, and say "yes please" and "no thank you" and mind his tongue when the adults talked and not butt into conversations.

People he'd never met before came to tell him that the last time they'd seen him he'd only been a little baby _so big_. He got tired of that very quickly. He was six _and a half_. He was not a blighted baby anymore.

"You look so much like your mother. You have the same beautiful emerald eyes."

"You have her heart-shaped face."

"You have her smile."

They were just saying things to be nice, but their words made Seith sad. He'd sometimes looked at his reflection in mirrors or shiny metal, where it was made strange, and he'd looked for his mother in him.

The tapestries and paintings in and around Skyhold made her seem like a stranger, stern and unapproachable. An important person. A hero. She'd closed rifts. She'd slain dragons. She was the Inquisitor who, in the end, had helped defeat the evil Corypheus who would have plunged their world into a living nightmare. Or so the storytellers said.

The adults around the table talked and laughed about stuff that had happened to other people he didn't know, years and years ago, before Seith had been born. He sat and dutifully broke his bread into small pieces, chewed and swallowed, and took small sips of the apple juice without messing.

"You're the son of the Inquisitor," Father had told him beforehand. "You must set an example. Everyone will want to see you on your best behaviour. Don't dishonour your mother's memory."

The tunic he wore was new, its collar too high and the fabric too stiff. He would not be able to run and play wearing this. Tiny little dragons had been embroidered on the hems. If he got this dirty or torn, he'd be in big trouble.

The only problem was, setting an example was boring. The hall was hot and noisy from so many people all talking at once. He fidgeted and knocked over a saltcellar, and Father glanced sharply at him before continuing his conversation with Cassandra.

From across the table, Dorian winked at him, however. "This is all rather tedious, I agree."

Next to Seith, to his right, Cassandra paused, her goblet raised halfway to her lips. "Dorian, you have been here one day and you're already corrupting the youth."

"Teniël would've found this tedious too," Dorian replied. "And she would've had you making at least a dozen of your disgusted noises by now with one of her off-colour jokes. I remember the one about the miller's son and the rather delectable, strapping young chevalier..."

Cassandra only just managed to stifle her disapproval, and even Father joined in the laughter, though Seith didn't feel it was right to laugh. He wasn't even sure why any of this was funny.

The Iron Bull rumbled something Seith didn't quite catch, from three seats down to Seith's left, and the adults all started laughing again. Louder this time. People at other tables turned to look at them before they continued their discussions.

If only Seith could leave. Gerda, Shey and Grayden didn't have to sit at the big banquet. They would be sneaking pastries from the kitchen, or spying on people.

Yet he couldn't help but think about the conversation he'd had with Shey earlier.

Eventually, when the desserts were being served, and the conversation had calmed a bit, Seith found his courage.

"Father?"

The Commander paused in his conversation with Dorian and turned to him. "What is it?"

"This afternoon, when I was with my friends, Shey said something about when humans and other races…" His words grew small and scrunched, and he was aware of at least half a dozen pairs of eyes on him. "That…" Seith took a breath. "The human side always comes out." He self-consciously touched the tip of his right ear, his skin so warm he was sure he was blushing bright pink.

No one at the table said a word. Smiles vanished. Seith wanted to melt off his chair and slide under the table where no one could look at him.

Dorian spoke first. "Cullen, at some point you're going to have to tell him the truth."

His father went very pale and tight lipped, and the look he shot at the Tevinter mage could have turned him to stone. Seith's vision, for some reason, blurred with tears. He had just said the wrong words, and he was in so much trouble, and he did the only thing he could think of to make things better. He slipped from his chair and ran.

Though it was summer, it was cool this late at night, and Seith found his way to the one place where he always felt safe – the herb garden. Usually he visited here during the day, but now it was weird, and somewhat spooky. The statue of his mother loomed larger than life, her left hand raised eternally to the stars, and he crouched at the base of the statue.

He'd never noticed it before, but at night the crystal graces emitted a softly sweet perfume that made him think of moonbeams. Seith made himself comfortable between her feet, and squished himself into the gap between her legs. He didn't fit as well there as he used to. The tears that had threatened in the Great Hall spilled freely now, and chilled instantly on his skin as they tracked down and tickled his lips, where he tasted their salt.

Why he was so incredibly sad, he couldn't quite say. Maybe it was just six years of being the motherless brat Delon often called him all adding up.

 _Knife-ear. Filthy nug-breath_.

What if all those words were true? He was just a nothing, and everyone was pretending that they loved him all along. The dead stone gaze of his mother's statue remained fixed on the uncaring stars. Seith was so small. So… _Inconvenient_. Yes, that was a word he'd heard Mother Elaine use when she was talking about something that wasn't in the right place. Wasn't needed.

Seith shivered and hugged himself. Horrid tunic. Too tight.

Then the crickets stopped chirping, and he froze. Was there someone else here? He strained his hearing, but couldn't pick up any tell-tale footsteps. The noise from the Great Hall went on without him, a steady rumble of laughter and voices. Yet the air within the herb garden felt heavy, the shadows somehow sticky and heavy, and sending out sticky tendrils that grasped for him.

His ears started to throb, right inside his head, with a suppressed sense of terror, and the fear crawled up his stomach and made his throat close. He should never have come out here on his own. _In the dark_. He was a silly, stupid boy for having run away.

He wanted to run, _knew_ he should run, but he was frozen to the spot, his limbs quaking with the need to put as much distance between himself and the thickening darkness around him that lapped at him like tongues.

"Seith? Seith! There you are!"

"Father!" Seith nearly was sick with relief.

The Commander stood framed in the doorway that ran through to the hall. Seith wasn't certain who else was with him, but his father turned to the other person, nodded sharply then stepped out into the garden alone.

He waited for his father to reach him then scrambled from the statue's plinth straight into his father's arms, where he lost himself in the Commander's familiar strength and his scent, which was a little like the cedarwood oil he preferred, his sweat, and the wine he'd been drinking at the table. The combination was not wholly unpleasant, but he was mostly just relieved that his father had come, and that the horrible sense of fear had retreated.

His father hugged him tightly then set him down so he could stand.

"You make me worry every time you run off like that."

"I'm sorry." And Seith _was_ sorry, but he did not have enough words to describe how awful that situation at the table had been for him. "It hurts here." Seith placed a hand on his chest. "And I feel like crying."

His father gave a small groan and sat down on the plinth, and leaned against the statue's legs. He tipped his head back and gestured for Seith to join him, which he did, and his father pulled him close against him, where he felt safe and warm.

"I'll let you in on a secret. I sometimes feel like that too. Then I go for a walk to a particular spot up on the battlements where I used to... Meet with your mother when we could steal away a moment. I go stand there and then sometimes I don't feel so..." His dad placed a hand, palm down on his chest. "Hollow. Like someone has taken a spoon and scooped out my heart."

"Yuck!" Seith said, and crinkled his nose, but he almost understood what he meant.

"I feel bad for you," his father continued, "because you were only three months old when she went off to go follow up on... A story... To find the Apostate. I begged her not to go, but she went. She, and Cole, and that damned witch and her son. They took no one else. Stole away in the night. Didn't want to make a nuisance, she'd said. It wouldn't be long. They'd be back within three to four weeks. Only we had no word, and four weeks became six, and only then the witch and her son returned. They spoke of ancient magic they had disturbed in old Elvhen ruins, how in the confusion... Your mother and Cole simply vanished. As if they had never existed. Almost like that time when she and Dorian had gone in Redcliffe Castle."

His father went silent, but his breathing was laboured. Seith placed his hand on his father's knee, and waited for him, his thoughts tumbling madly with a hundred questions. This story was different from the one he'd heard told by everyone else. How his mother had gone to close one last rift and had given her life to protect Thedas from a nightmare, similar to the one that had taken Stroud.

"Why did she go after the Apostate herself?" Seith asked. "Surely if he had left Corypheus' defeat like he did, he did not want to be found?" Seith knew that part of the story well, because everyone worried why the Apostate had left so abruptly. Especially after the orb was broken. People said all sorts of things about it.

"It might have been very dangerous," Seith added. "She should have taken more soldiers. She should have listened to you."

"She had to go on her own," his father said with a heavy sigh. "Because the Apostate was the one she loved beyond reason, beyond life itself. And you need to know this, he was your true father."


	4. Chapter 4

_A Letter from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danice Harding, 9:43._

 _Dear Danica_

 _Please excuse the state of this letter, I'm writing from our encampment in the Hinterlands. Seems there was a nest of wyvern spotted and we've been sent to scout out the area._

 _I'm still reeling with the news that Madame de Fer has been made the new Divine. Of all people, her? I know she's ridiculously well connected and while she was with the Inquisition, she made some valuable contributions, but I'll let you in on a secret. She and our illustrious leader never truly saw eye to eye, there being the not inconsiderable matter of the Circles and the fact that the madame has always looked down on Dalish magic._

 _There the Apostate especially must have had great influence on Teniël, because she was vehemently opposed to any notion that mages should be regulated. Good thing he left when he did. I can only imagine what would've happened had he not upped and vanished._

 _I don't even want to consider what's going to happen now. Apparently Danae lost her composure in a rarely seen but spectacular display of emotion. There's little love lost between those two, I gather. Then again, the madame's new policies will undo all that the Mage Rebellion had set out to achieve._

 _As for the coming bundle of joy, the last I saw, our Inquisitor was waddling about looking as if she'd somehow ingested a whole melon, or like one of those constrictors from the Arbor Wilds after it's swallowed an entire nug. She's always been on the skinny side but yikes, I don't envy her in the least. I'm sure she's looking forward to the birth, though I don't fancy the idea of getting that child out of her. The Commander guards her like a bear its cubs – it's quite adorable, really. He gets this faraway look in his eyes during meetings when he thinks no one notices. I'd hate to break it to him, but babies are a handful._

 _Not to mention the sleepless nights. And the poopy diapers. No thank you! Not for me!_

 _Speaking of babies, I loved that bracelet the twins made, especially the griffin design. It's a perfect gift for Dagna's name-day, so please thank them for me and tell them I'll reimburse them when I visit. I'd bet Jorg must be overjoyed that they've not burned down his workshop. Yet._

 _Mother never quite got the singe marks off the kitchen ceiling, did she?_

 _Anyhow, I'm running out of paper again. I need to write that report for the Commander and it's bad enough that I'm sneaking the offcut bits for my letters home. Send my love to Mother and Father, and them not to work too hard. I'll be able to confirm dates for my visit in a week or two._

 _Love_

 _Lace_

# # #

Chapter 4

Skyhold, 9:49

"There he is! Get him!"

"That'll teach him for being a rat!"

Seith hesitated for a second, then saw Aiden, Will and one of the other regulars from Delon's little gang. Not Delon, thankfully. Maybe Father had spoken to Captain Trask. Of course he had, and Delon was being punished, which meant his friends were unhappy about the situation.

Problem was, they'd caught him on a walkway that didn't have direct access to the battlements. He'd have to cut into the upper storeys above the Great Hall then pray he could shake them before they caught him.

Seith dodged through the door, past a startled serving woman who dropped her bucket of sudsy water and mop. The chaos behind him when Aiden and the rest collided with her would have been priceless to watch, but Seith was intent on the mezzanine section above the Great Hall. There was some scaffolding recently put up near the Undercroft entrance that he could scramble down; the benefits of being smaller and lighter meant that the older boys would have to take the stairs, and he'd win himself some valuable –

Seith rounded the corner onto the mezzanine and ran straight into a group of Chantry sisters. He bounced off the tall, imposing woman who strode at the head of the party, and if it weren't for the quick reflexes of one of the ladies, he'd have landed on his backside.

Not just any Chantry sister glared down at him. The robes were far too fine, and there was no mistaking the haughty, dark-skinned features and the particular tilt of a perfectly sculpted brow he'd seen in one of the oil paintings that had been hung in Josephine's office.

Divine Victoria.

"My, my, whose scruffy little urchin is this?" she asked.

The Chantry sister who held him dug in with her bony fingers, yet even if she had let go, Seith was frozen in place. A halla must feel like this when cornered by a hunter.

"C-c-commander R-rutherford's, your holiness," Seith stammered, though his new knowledge about his real father stung. It was easier using the Commander's name than his mother's.

At that the woman let loose a peal of laughter that echoed into the Great Hall's rafters. "The lad has a sense of humour." But then she crouched down before him so that they were at eye level. "You've grown much since you were but a babe in arms, but you're no more that cuckold Cullen's brat than I'm the empress."

She reached out and tilted his head, this way and that, her fingers cold against his skin. "Well, it's true what they say. You resemble your mother more than that _traitor_. You should be grateful." She glanced over her shoulder. "Josephine, darling, this little morsel hasn't shown a scrap of talent yet? For all the blood that runs through his veins?"

Seith shot a wild look at Josie, but she studiously kept her gaze on her notes. The Divine still hadn't let go of his chin.

"No, your holiness."

"Odd." The Divine peered at him closely. Her breath smelled like mint and aniseed, she was so close.

She released him then rose in a rustle of rich fabric. "Well, keep an eye on him. His mother was exceptionally gifted. As for the one who sired him. It'd be a shame for that much talent to go to waste. The First Enchanter at the new Circle in Val Foret has specifically requested that we seek out those who have potential. Imagine what could be achieved if the talent were guided from the start instead of being left to run rampant."

She patted Seith on his head, as if he were some hound that had pleased her, and then she and her gaggle of sisters swept past, voices chiming as the Divine criticised the work that had been done on Skyhold since her last visit years ago.

Seith rubbed his face to get rid of the chill that seemed to have leeched all the warmth from his skin. Brrr! That woman was terrible. His father – _Cullen_ – had never had anything good to say about her, and had even dropped a few comments the night before saying he was glad that she hadn't arrived yet. Well, she was here now, and she was definitely someone Seith wished to avoid in the future. When he'd gazed into her eyes, he'd felt as if she could rummage around in his head and find out all the secrets he didn't even know he had. That was how horrible she was.

Seith hurried back to where he'd find his father. He still couldn't think of the Commander as anyone else but his father, even with this revelation about the apostate mage Solas.

Come to think about it, he'd often sneaked into the rotunda where the Apostate's murals still decorated the walls. No one went in there much, but so far, Cassandra and Josie hadn't come up with any other plans for the room no one else wanted to have anything to do with. Seith went past there now, and slipped like a shadow into the chamber. Without candles in the sconces or a cheery fire in the hearth, the space was dead, the sounds from the Great Hall dull just down the passage.

It was strange standing here seeing the marvellous artworks with fresh eyes, trying to imagine the Apostate – Solas, _Father_ – painting. Stories said he was surprisingly well built for an elf, fastidious in his habits, and fussy, even.

The few images captured in books he'd seen depicted a male with a shaven head, severe features. A man with too many secrets, he'd heard of some stories. And secrets were dangerous.

Seith peered a while at the peculiar figures, but without light and with a generous coating of dust and cobwebs, they lacked detail. He returned to the Great Hall in time to see the Commander leave Josie's office with a pile of documents clutched to his chest.

"There you are, scamp," his father said. He smiled but to Seith that smile looked forced.

"Can I help you, Father?"

The man flinched. "You don't have to still call me that."

"It's all right. You're the only father I know. I don't want it to change."

Seith understood right then, that if he pushed Cullen away, he'd lose everything. Even if it weren't real. What was real then? His head hurt when he tried to think of any the enigmatic and reviled Apostate in the same terms as Cullen. His human father.

Solas had gone without a word and had not returned, even if it had broken Teniël's heart. Solas didn't deserve to be called Father.

So Seith pretended as if everything was fine, as if his heart didn't feel like a stone that had sunk to the bottom of his belly. They passed Delon's friends in the forecourt, and Seith pretended they were not there. He didn't even glance in their direction, and with his father present, they didn't dare breathe a word, though he was sure they'd shot him filthy glares.

It was only once they'd arrived at the tower room that Seith spoke of seeing the Divine.

"Would you have to send me away?" he asked his father.

Cullen collapsed into his chair so hard Seith was afraid he'd break it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply before meeting Seith's gaze. "You haven't had any... Odd... Experiences, like hearing voices or objects moving by themselves, have you? Or seen things that are clearly not of this world?"

Alarm beat through Seith. That time in the stables, with the shadows, when he was certain someone had spoken his name... And in the herb garden last night.

Seith shook his head to dispel that evil thought. It had just been his imagination. Nothing more. The mere thought of the Divine examining him, of having him packed away to some distant place away from everyone he knew and loved... That was far, far worse.

"Then we have nothing to worry about then, do we?" Father said.

Seith shook his head, relieved. Father would keep him safe, just like he made sure that Skyhold was safe. He didn't have to worry.

# # #

Seith was in the forest of dreams again, but this time he was really _in_ the forest. His feet squished in the mouldy leaf litter, and more than once he stepped on something slippery and slimy that wriggled from beneath his sole. The air was heavy, warm and moist, and he had difficulty breathing. Mostly, it was so very dark, and he followed a narrow footpath with great difficulty. How he'd gotten here he had no idea. One moment Father had tucked him warm and safe in bed, with a story about his mother, and the next, he'd found himself standing on the footpath.

All around him giant tree trunks festooned with thick tangles of creepers and chunks of weirdly glowing mushrooms crowded him.

But it was the sounds that made him swallow back whimpers. The great forest was so noisy, filled with the _chirrrr_ of insects and the resonant calls of countless frogs. Every once in a while, a haunting trumpeting pierced through, like a child's cry but only much louder.

Seith stumbled on, his breath rasping in his throat and his skin damp.

For how long he walked he wasn't sure, but then he came to a clearing where lichen-fuzzed ruins poked through the undergrowth like broken teeth.

There were lights here, strange flickering blue orbs that danced about like fireflies, but that wasn't all. A cowled with its head bowed figure sat cross-legged on a tumbled pillar. A prickle of foreboding crept up Seith's spine; a knowingness he didn't question told him exactly who it was he saw.

"Solas."

The elf looked up and, and for a moment his eyes flashed in the weird light. Then there was a rumble in the air, and the very ground began to tremble. Ugly, rumbling laughter sounded from all directions. Seith tasted real fear, and spun about, but he could see nothing beyond the trees and the star-dusted circle of sky above.

Solas jumped down from his perch and plucked up his staff from where it had been resting against the fallen masonry just as the ground ruptured a mere five feet from Seith.

They were both thrown back as some awful being, tall and with spindly, almost spider-like limbs, sprang out of the ground with a screech that momentarily robbed him of his senses.

When Seith opened his eyes again and could see, the thing stood just above him, long talons uncurled, ready to strike.

A bright flash, and the world blanked out again.

# # #

Seith cried out and thrashed about on his bed. The blankets had tangled with his legs. He was home. It had all just been a dream. A terrible, terrible dream no doubt brought on by all the things that had happened the past few days.

There were no demons in Skyhold waiting to get him.

Father called up from downstairs. "Everything all right?"

"Just a bad dream, Father," Seith replied, hugging himself and shivering. Just a terrible, terrible dream. He sighed in relief and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He'd go downstairs and ask his father if they could visit the kitchens to fetch a glass of warm milk with honey in it. From the murmur of quiet conversation downstairs, it sounded as if Father had guests. He recognised Varric's low laugh.

It was as he started climbing down the ladder that he noticed how dirty his feet were, as if he'd been running through a forest, along a muddy trail.


	5. Chapter 5

_A Letter from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danice Harding, 9:43._

 _Dear Danica_

 _Well, I suppose that cat's out of the bag now. The one about the Inquisitor. Healthy baby boy born a few hours ago at time of writing. Very healthy baby boy. He just about squawled enough to wake the Old Gods. Only one complication, and this is one they're not going to be trumpeting around Thedas. The kid isn't the Commander's. Oh no, not at all._

 _The baby's ears are as pointy as his mother's._

 _I'll let that sink in for a moment or two._

 _No prizes for guess who the father is. The now-absent father._

 _It's been like a funeral here in Skyhold for the past two weeks. I'm leaving tomorrow for the Storm Coast and I tell you, this mission couldn't come a moment sooner. Even if I expect to lose a pair of boots to the damp._

 _For now, the Commander has moved out of the Inquisitor's quarters and back into his tower room where he keeps his office. Don't blame him. Everyone's walking around on eggshells, talking about everything_ but _what would've been the most joyous occasion since Corypheus' defeat. Not much laughter happening, I can assure you, and the Inquisitor has remained confined to her quarters, with Cassandra standing in for her. Teniël will only see Danae and Dorian. A sad state of affairs._

 _But anyhow… Onto other pressing details._

 _There's talk of increased Venatori presence – seems they're not taking the hint, what with Corypheus being gone – so there's additional reason not to be celebrating at the moment. (Also, please just be more aware around the farmstead. I know our little part of Ferelden's been pretty quiet these past few months, but you never know…)_

 _Now, for something to cheer up the rather dour tone of this missive..._

 _Dagna and I have taken a suite of rooms together above the tavern, quite close to Sera's, and we've been spending more time with that crazy lady. She's a bundle of laughs, even if she's rather silly at times, and I'm glad Dagna's made a friend – she gets too caught up in her work as it is. I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't apply for a more permanent position in Skyhold. Now that I've got a reason to settle down. Don't you worry – I know you're pulling a face, dear sister – we're not at all thinking about babies, believe you me._

 _Lady is doing well and I must commend you with regard to the training that she's had. Probably one of the most obedient Mabaris I've been owned by. As always, I cannot thank you enough for gifting me with one of Silk's litters. I know how valuable the little runts are!_

 _I'll write to you once I've arrived at the Storm Coast, and I hope I'll have better news to share._

 _Love always_

Lace

# # #

Chapter 5

Skyhold, 9:49

Fortunately, Seith's father was too preoccupied with his guests to notice the state of Seith's feet once he climbed down the ladder and, as it turned out, it was the sort of evening where he could get away with not going to sleep at a regular hour – provided he didn't interrupt the conversation.

But then neither Dorian, Varric nor the Iron Bull were the sort to mind interruptions, because Seith did end up asking them lots of questions about their adventures – stories he'd previously only ever heard told second-hand. Father sent for a warmed cup of milk, and even once Seith was done drinking it, he sat up on the couch next to Varric, wrapped in his father's cloak.

His eyes grew heavier and heavier, and the stories more incredible, about dwarven ruins, dragonlings and abandoned mines where giant spiders lurked, mandibles twitching.

So many stories started with a laugh, and a "Remember that time when…"

Sometimes there'd be a moment of silence, when they remembered those who were no longer with them. Teniël's absence was like a great bear in the room. No one could turn around for the fact that she had gone. Seith's heart hurt yet he was glad at the same time to hear these stories so he could still know his mother in some way.

Apparently she'd had a lively sense of mischief paired with a sharp tongue that had even set Dorian straight from time to time. Seith wished he could have been there to see that.

Seith didn't know when exactly he'd nodded off, but when he awoke, only Dorian and Father remained, the candles burning low and weeping wax. Father was rubbing his temples the same way he always did when he said he was having a bad day, and he would ask Seith to go fetch a remedy from Phaedra in the herb garden.

Dorian faced Father from across his desk, and the bottles of wine were all empty. "The Circle would be the worst place for him, and you know it," Dorian murmured.

"I know, I know. I'm well aware of the fact that if he does start showing magical ability, I can't keep him here."

They were talking about _him_ , Seith knew, and he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

"Can't Danae, you know, take over teaching him? She used to be first enchanter, after all."

Father gave a dry laugh. "You honestly think that preening tusket is going to allow Danae to teach after she instigated a rebellion? We're lucky enough that we haven't had all our mages packed off to a circle. Especially now that the worst of the troubles are over. The only reason we were allowed to keep Danae was because Victoria's so damned afraid she'd be in a position to foment more trouble among impressionable young minds."

"Cassandra could have words with Victoria."

"Cassandra would agree that the boy's place would be with the mages."

"Cullen," Dorian pleaded. "My offer still stands."

"That'd be like throwing him to the wolves," Father said. "And it still means he'd be sent away from Skyhold."

"He'd be under my protection. You forget I also have sharp teeth. Teniël often said she'd wanted me to be his guardian, should –"

There was a soft bump, and the glassware on the desk chimed. Father must've thumped the desk. Softly, obviously, because he didn't want to wake Seith.

" _I'm_ still here," Father said.

"You can't teach him what he needs to know, should the time come," Dorian insisted.

"You seem so damned keen to have him under your protection."

"Teniël was like a sister to me. I'd have died for her if I had to."

The chamber was silent, but for Father's drawn-out moan, followed by a sigh. "Let me think about it. He hasn't shown the slightest inkling of magical potential."

"For now. But remember, he'd be with someone who cares as much about him as you do. And, besides, I didn't turn out too badly for a Vint." Dorian cackled.

Father spoke, "There is something I should tell you. So far only Varric knows. He saw Cole."

"Oh my."

"I know."

"You should definitely not tell Cassandra about that. You know she never approved of Cole's being here. And if she knew he'd reappeared..."

Silence followed, and both men sighed. Then Dorian continued, "As for the election… There are a number of candidates, but I think it's pretty certain she's going to end up being elected and take...measures. Hawke's a close second, but he's only here because Varric insisted. He'd be one to see reason."

"Might go better for us if Hawke is elected," Father said. "More scope for change."

Dorian offered a horrified, overly dramatic gasp. "Goodness, and the ensuing chaos…"

"He's calmed down over the years."

"If half the stories I've heard about him are true... Do bear in mind that Cassandra was the one who started all this Inquisition business, in any case. If it weren't for her… But, getting back to Cole, what happened?"

Father said, "Some boys have been bullying Seith. Trask's get is the instigator. I've had words a few times but the troubles keep cropping up. I may have to get Cassandra involved if this goes on. But I digress… Seems the boy got Seith locked into one of the old storage rooms down near the kitchens."

"You still haven't cleared those out?"

"You know how it is. There's always something else that's more pressing."

"So, what happened?" Dorian asked.

"He got help. Says that 'a strange young man with a funny hat' just appeared and opened the door for him. Didn't talk much sense either."

"That's Cole all right, and he didn't say anything else?"

"Babbled on about helping."

"That's not very helpful," Dorian pointed out. "Has anyone seen him since?"

"No. I was hoping you may have heard..."

"You know he was always wary around me, and nothing else out of the ordinary?"

"Beyond the usual things small people get up to? No."

"He's taken the revelation about his sire quite well."

"I shouldn't have kept it hidden in the first place," Father said with a deep sigh.

A lull in the conversation followed then Dorian pushed his chair back. "It's late or early, but if I don't get my beauty sleep I'll look like a hag tomorrow during conclave, and we can't have that now, can we?"

Seith continued to pretend to be fast asleep until Father woke him not long after Dorian left, but once he'd been returned to his bed upstairs, he really fell fast asleep, and this time he didn't dream.

# # #

They were supposed to be kept out of mischief, but Mother Elaine soon despaired. Gerda and Shey kept giggling for what appeared to be no reason, and Grayden and a few of the other boys had made miniature wire catapults which they were putting to good use by shooting seeds they'd snitched from the herb garden. They might as well have been using pebbles because the seeds stung quite sore.

Every time Mother Elaine spun around when another seed ricocheted off the eaves or a mere yard from her hand as she scrawled with chalk on the blackboard, the boys pretended to be completely concerned with writing on their slates.

People kept going up and down the walkways outside their classroom, and called out to each other about things that had to be placed in particular places. When the day was done, there'd be a new Inquisitor, and there'd be a big banquet and entertainment.

It was almost as if everyone was giving up. While Cassandra had been acting-Inquisitor, it had always felt to Seith that his mother would one day return to Skyhold. His chest grew tight again, and he said very little throughout the day. Six years was a long time for someone to be missing. And not dead. That word was cold and hard, just like a small stone. Seith knew what dead was. He'd seen Cook wring the chickens' necks. Once, he'd even seen the soldiers put one of the horses out of its misery when it'd broken its leg.

Dead meant finished. Dead meant the body was broken and the spirit had gone somewhere Seith couldn't reach. They thought his mother was dead. And it hurt. A lot. He hadn't realised how much he'd still been hoping until now.

Everyone else was talking, laughing and joking, and Seith felt like making himself smaller and smaller, until he was also just a tiny little stone, all hard and cold. Or like a seed, and he wasn't sure what sort of plant might eventually grow from it.

When class was over, and everyone ran to the kitchens to get their lunch, Seith slunk off into the garden, to his mother's statue. This time of the day, the crystal graces were tightly furled, and the old blooms drooped and shrivelled. Lazy bumblebees knocked against the embriums, and he caught a whiff of the prophet's laurel.

It was easy to vanish here, among the greenery, half shaded from the sun by the large dog roses. It was easy for him to be completely overlooked. And somewhere, within all his sadness and hurt, and perhaps also because of the late night he'd had listening to the others' stories, Seith's lids slid shut, and he slipped into that warm halfway place between the realms of waking and dreaming. Not quite part of either realm, which was perhaps the best, because no dreams came to trouble him further.

# # #

"There you are, Stinky, thought you'd be here. You've got Curly worried sick."

Seith rubbed open his eyes and looked up at Varric, who had parted the dog roses so he could peer down at him.

His father appeared behind the dwarf, his tone of voice terse as he spoke to Varric. "I'll see you later."

It was a dismissal, and Varric waved good-humouredly and went on his way.

"I'm sorry," Seith said to the Commander, and pulled his knees up to his chest. Whatever good, sleepy feeling he'd had vanished, to be replaced by more sadness tinged with lingering shame for once again having run away.

The shadows had grown long, and he must've been out here for a while. His father frowned. "Cook sent someone to tell me that you weren't there for lunch."

Seith shook his head. His father was supposed to be sitting in that big meeting with all the other people, yet he'd obviously been called out to come find him.

"Maker's breath, I'm no good at this parenting business, am I?" his father said as he came to sit down next to Seith. He sighed deeply and massaged at his temples.

His father didn't sound angry. Just tired. And, like Seith, sad.

"Are you not supposed to be in the conclay– con thing?"

His father just shook his head then rested his chin on his knees, somehow unconsciously mirroring the way Seith was sitting.

"You're getting your robes dusty," Seith pointed out.

His father was dressed much smarter than usual – not in armour – and the dark green of the tunic was catching dust.

"Doesn't matter. Conclave's over. Cassandra's the new Inquisitor." He puffed out a breath then covered his face with his hands.

They sat like that for a very long time, not saying much, and all Seith could think of doing was patting his father's shoulder. He didn't have any words either.


	6. Chapter 6

_A Letter from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danica Harding, 9:43._

 _Dear Danica_

 _A terrible thing has happened. I'm writing to you now, this short message, to reassure you that you must not allow the fearmongers to alarm you unduly. Everything is still under control. The Inquisition has merely suffered a setback, that is all. You'll probably hear all sorts of doom and gloom, but the gist of it is that our Inquisitor set out a few weeks ago on an urgent, secret mission to the Arbor Wilds. She went accompanied only by Morrigan and her son, and Cole, and between them, they should have been fine. Kieran, though young, is a fine mage – even if he's an apostate. We have encampments there, and Teniël did check in._

 _Yet, once they set out on whichever venture they'd intended, there was an incident. That's the best way I can describe it with what little information I have at my disposal. Morrigan remains tight-lipped, and no one's telling anyone anything, but from what I can gather from my own network, some sort of magical event took place – nearly rivalling that which caused the Breach – and the only people to walk out of that were Morrigan and her son._

 _Now if that doesn't seem suspicious, I don't even know what else can be. Morrigan lingered in Skyhold for three days after she came back and then she too just upped and vanished. The Commander has had the room housing the Eluvian locked and barred, and guards are posted outside it night and day. Make of that what you will._

 _Danae and the Commander have had a few screaming matches, and Cassandra's had to forcibly separate them on more than one occasion. It's not been pretty. Can you imagine the erstwhile First Enchanter and a former-Templar starting up those hostilities again?_

 _No prizes for guessing where I'm currently stationed, only this time I am grateful that Dagna has accompanied me, as we'll be poking about in the Elvhen ruins where the event took place, and Dagna seems to think she may be able to piece together what transpired that fateful night. We can only hope. Dorian has come with too, but won't be staying long. He's returning to Tevinter in a fortnight, where he hopes he can access some of the libraries in order to conduct further research. Besides, his father sent word that he's been ailing… It's horrible, sister. I can see he's being torn in different directions, but Dagna told him it was for the best that he mends bridges while he still can._

 _It's breaking my heart to see the original companions splitting up like this and going their own ways, but nothing lasts forever; the Inquisition will change, adapt. People join. People leave. That is the nature of things. We can't hold this back, and now with our main reason for having come into existence is gone, I guess it's only natural that the energy that brought us together also allows us to part ways. To try trap the Inquisition in a cage will not help. Then we'd become unwieldy, like the Seekers were near the end._

 _And we'll prevail. Thedas needs us. Remember how awful things were in the beginning, before we'd even rescued the mages from Corypheus' clutches? We never thought we'd succeed. So we'll figure something out. The Inquisition is filled with brilliant people, and we'll make things work. There are other fires that require putting out, other battles, and the right people will step up to the task._

 _My heart is breaking at the moment. I don't really have much to add except that I pray that you remain safe, and send my love to the rest of our family._

 _All my love_

 _Lace_

# # #

Chapter 6

Skyhold, 9:49

Sister Marguerite was far more fascinated in the conversation she was having with one of the guards on the battlements than she was in keeping an eye on Seith, who was supposed to be tucked away safely in bed. Thing was, Shey and Gerda had snuck right upstairs, on the pretext of bringing a basket of laundry, which was how they'd spirited Seith past the adults' noses – with the aforementioned laundry forming a convenient Seith-shaped lump in his bed that would fool a casual glance. That's if the sister even bothered to go up the ladder to check on him.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Seith said to his friends once they dumped him out of the basket near the kitchens.

Flickering torches sent the shadows leaping, and made everything familiar especially creepy. Fortunately the staff hurrying about were far too busy fetching and carrying platters of food and trays of drinks to notice three wayward youngsters. Or so Seith hoped.

"Let's get moving before Cook sees us," Shey said, and they followed her into some of the lesser-used back passages where cobwebs festooned the walls and their footsteps echoed after them.

"I don't like it here," Seith said. The incident involving Delon and the mouldy old book room was still fresh in his memory, and they were not far from that particular thoroughfare.

Shey crouched and drew with chalk on the flagstones, and the others huddled round her watching her make a map.

"This," she said, "is the kitchen. "These are the passages that lead to the stores, the Great Hall. This is the route –" _Scritch-scritch_ went the chalk. "– that the servers are taking. Cook is here most of the time. This is where Herloise Manchant has set up her base. Now she has two assistants – Philippe and Gaston – they're idiots. They're too busy checking out the girls to really pay attention to us. Now, this is where you come in, Seith."

Two pairs of bright eyes were fixed on him, and he gulped. He didn't like the direction this conversation was going.

"W-what?"

"Gerda and I are going to create a diversion. We're going to go fetch some of the hens from the stables, and let them go in the kitchen. While everyone's running around madly trying to catch chickens, you're going to dash up to Manchant's station, and you're going to grab as many of her éclairs as you can."

"Why me?"

"Well, duh." Gerda rolled her eyes.

Shey slapped his shoulder. "You're the smallest. People tend not to notice you."

"Unless they trip over him," Gerda supplied.

"Why can't Grayden do this?" Seith asked. "Where is he, by the way?"

"He has to clear plates," Shey answered. "Cook says he's old enough."

"We got off," Gerda said with a smug smile. "Because we folded laundry today."

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," Seith said.

"Well, do you have a better one?" Shey asked.

He shook his head, his heart hammering. After his disastrous dinner the night before, he'd been only too glad when his father had suggested he stay in the tower room. Sister Marguerite hadn't been totally awful. She'd read to him from a storybook and she hadn't even made him pray. Which was always nice, because prayers were boring.

"Seith, you've gone all blank-eyed on us." Shey rapped her knuckles on the top of his head.

"Ouch!" he placed his hands protectively over his scalp.

"I guess that means he doesn't have a better idea," Gerda said.

"What happens if we get caught?" Seith asked.

"Don't get caught," the girls answered in unison.

Waiting was the hardest part, Seith allowed once he had insinuated himself into the kitchen. With all the big people rushing about and yelling orders, he found it easy enough to make his way to the right spot. There were other scullions in the kitchen, though none quite as small and young as Seith, but he found that if he walked about, pretending to collect fallen scraps for the slops bucket, he was ignored.

 _Look like you belong_ , he'd heard Leliana once say to one of her assistants, _and most people won't even notice you're where you're not supposed to be_.

He had one heart-stopping moment when a serving lad cussed him out for being in the way, but then he slipped into a corner near the Orlesian chef's station, where he hunkered down behind a large basket that smelled strongly of onions.

The noise in the kitchen was overwhelming – shouting, swearing. The smells were at war with each other, roast meat competing with fish, tangy apricot sauce and blanched beans.

Seith made himself tiny, and waited. Feet and legs tromped up and down past his spot. Knives were dropped. At least twice glass shattered, and yet more cursing ensued.

But then there was a scream, and a cackling of hens, and Seith's heart wanted to leap out of his throat.

"Who let the chickens loose?" Cook cried.

A woman screamed, and Seith took his chance.

The éclairs were just across the way – gleaming on a tray, chocolate with cream filling – and Seith scurried as fast as he could. Every moment he expected a hand to clamp down on his shoulder. _One. Two. Three_. The chocolate coated his hands and he tried not to squash the treats.

Then he made a run for it, dodging past the puffy Orlesian woman just as she turned to notice him.

"Oi! Thief!" she yelled, but then a chicken squawked past her and she nearly lost her footing as a scullion made a grab for the errant fowl.

Seith's breath rasped in his throat as he pelted past the storerooms then down and out into the back yard where his friends waited.

The girls glared at him as he held out the morsels.

"What, only three?" Gerda said.

Shey pouted. "Really now. We went to all this trouble and you only got three?"

"Well, do you want them or not?" Seith returned. "I could've gotten into big trouble."

"Oh, please. No one would hurt you. You're the Inquisitor's brat."

Seith's disappointment stung. "So, that's why you wanted me to do this? Because you think I won't get into as much trouble as you?"

" _Pffft_ ," Shey said, and grabbed an éclair.

Her sister took the other, and Seith was left with the scrunched-up one that had smeared most of its chocolate off on his fingers.

The éclair didn't taste quite as good as he'd hoped, and he didn't have the heart to tell Gerda that she'd gotten chocolate smudged on her left cheek. Serve her right for being so mean.

"Now what?" Seith said as he carefully licked his hand clean. Like he was a cat, he thought.

"We can go sneak into the stores by the stables," Shey said. "Some of the stable hands are arranging cock fights."

"I don't like that," Seith said. Truth be told, he'd watched one of the lads wring a bird's neck after a fight one day when it had been too injured. Not only that, but he'd seen Stablemaster Gedling fly into a rage when he caught the lads setting up a game. He said it was cruel, a game fit only for Vints. Seith agreed.

Yet he found himself unable to tear himself away from his friends. The stairs leading up to the tower room where he should be sleeping safe in bed were too far away, and the patches of darkness between the flickering torches were too inky. There was no telling what lurked in the shadows.

It would be easy to ask one of the guards to walk back with him but then word would eventually reach his father that he'd been out after dark when he should have been in bed.

And, besides, if he chickened out now, his friends would tease him for days after, and he didn't want that. So Seith followed in their wake, his stomach tightening into knots as they neared the stables.

Three small people were easy to miss in the crowd of servants and stable hands who had congregated in the small, enclosed yard behind the main structure. Lanterns of the type used in the stables had been set in strategic places and the light they shed was dim, and painted the leering faces in ominous shadows.

Coins changed hands with urgent, whispered bets. The score or so folks here were well aware that Stablemaster Gedling's wrath – should they be caught at this activity – would be fearsome indeed. While the girls tried for a vantage point so that they could see better, Seith moped about the edges, kicking a pebble and watching how it rattled against the wall. Which was why he didn't notice Delon until the boy grabbed him by his shoulders, and hissed in his ear.

"So, look who we have here…"

Seith gave a little squeak but Delon pinched him so hard no more sound could come out.

"Shouldn't you be a good little knife-ear and be in bed? Terrible things can happen to knife-ears who wander about where it's unsafe."

Aiden's cruel laughter made him kick and thrash about until Delon pinched harder until Seith's back spasmed.

"You think you're so clever, hiding behind the Commander. Getting us in trouble when you're the one who doesn't know his place," Delon continued.

"We need to teach him a lesson," Aiden chipped in.

"Yes. One he won't soon forget."

A hand was clamped over his mouth and someone grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. There was little Seith could do but kick futilely while he was manhandled away from the relative safety of the crowd.

Too intent on events happening within their tight circle, no one noticed Seith being dragged off into the depths of the stable. Delon's filthy hand was clamped so firmly over Seith's mouth and nose he could barely draw breath, and his lungs were on fire. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision and he wanted to explode.

"What are we going to do with 'im?" Aiden asked.

"Dunno. Maybe we should throw him into the new dracolisk's stall, whaddyou think?"

"Maker's breath! That one bit Karvan quite bad this morning," Aidan said with a whistle.

"I know." Delon sniggered, and yanked Seith off his feet.

Pure, blind terror shot lightning through Seith. He was like a worm caught fast on a hook, to be dangled for sport, and he kicked and thrashed and fought, but it did no good. The bigger boys dragged him along, not caring that they bumped him against the wall as they went further into the dim interior.

Horses snuffled in alarm, but then the raspy hiss of a dracolisk sounded, accompanied by the peculiar reptilian scent of its hide. Seith was able to jerk his head to the side. He gulped in air and let rip with a scream. "Noooo!"

His anger at this injustice flamed through his small body like molten fire, and the world went weird for a moment, as if he viewed it through a green haze. Whispers hovered on the edge of his awareness, long, coiling tendrils seeking him out. His skin felt too tight, as if he were filling with lightning.

A loud crack sounded, he was abruptly dropped, and he bashed his chin hard on the ground so that he bit his tongue and tasted iron.

The air tore above his head and spilled out a coruscating emerald glow and all the hairs on his arms, neck and head prickled at the energy that hummed and zinged in the air. A thin whine escaped him, and Seith crab-crawled until he had his back against a wall.

As if from a great distance, Delon and Aiden screamed shrilly, but he was unable to tear his gaze away from the bright heart that beat at the centre of this jagged rip in the very fabric of reality.

 _Seith_ …

 _Seith_ …

Eerie laughter rang in his ears but he couldn't move; his arms and legs refused to work, and he was sure shapes were dancing about in that brightness, coalescing and taking form. All he could do was watch and swallow back the blood that pooled in his mouth.

Those shapes became thin, spindly legs, the feet claws that rasped on the cobbles. Dark green skin covered a man-form that made him think of a grasshopper that knelt down before him. Too many eyes peered into his then a gaping mouth unflapped to reveal row upon row of tiny, peg-like teeth.

 _Seeeeeiiiiitthhhh_ …

The shrill screech sliced right through him and Seith screamed and screamed, his entire world narrowed to a pinpoint of unutterable terror.

With an abrupt snap, the rift shuttered out of existence, but the demon creature remained behind, clawing the air above him.

Seith scuttled sideways, wanting simply to get away. The thing screeched again then pounced, closing the distance between them so that it could press its ugly maw right against Seith's forehead. The stench of long-dead things filled the air. A frightening intelligence glittered in those fathomless eyes, and Seith sucked in a breath so that he could scream again.

Only there was a whisper of air past his skin, and a crossbow bolt lodged itself in one of those too-many unblinking eyes. The demon was flipped over onto its back, and Seith's paralysis vanished as pure survival kicked in. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

He dodged between adults' legs and escaped clutching hands, his wail of terror thin and streaming behind him. Every moment he expected someone or something to grab hold of him, and all he wanted was to be safe. Claws that snatched, jaws that bit...

"Seith! Seith!" a man called after him, but he only stopped once he reached the herb garden.

His chest was so tight he could hardly draw breath. Everything hurt, especially his head, and he sank to his knees before his mother's statue and pulled his arms over his head.

Only then did he allow himself to sob, ever so quietly, until the worst of the tremors passed and the comforting sounds of the garden at night seeped into his hearing. Crickets chirping. Some sort of frog by the water feature, that went _plink-plink_. A _tjrrrrrr_ of some sort of bug. And voices in the distance. People shouting out orders.

The crunch of boots on the gravel path had him sit up in time to see his father's familiar shape silhouetted against the stars.

"Maker's breath, Seith, are you all right?"

His father crouched by him and Seith scrambled into his arms, where he remained, shivering for a while until his father lifted him up and carried him away. Everything would be all right now. He was safe. His father was the Commander.

There were no demons in Skyhold…

# # #

"I shudder at the outcome if this had happened were I not here!" the Divine snapped. She spun around mid-stride along the length of the war room table, and jabbed a finger that stopped just short of poking the Commander's chest.

Seith sat on a chair before the table, where he normally was not allowed, while the adults waved their arms and carried on shouting at each other. This had been going on all morning – Cassandra, the Commander, the Divine, and even Dorian, who had apparently been the one to help the Divine blast the terror demon into nothingness after Varric had shot it.

It would seem that everyone had the idea that they had a better solution for the problem, and the problem had a name that was on everyone's lips: Seith. He tried to shrink in on himself, make himself somehow smaller and unnoticeable, but he might as well have been a bronto in the room. So long as he did not move nor make so much as a whimper, he could be a little bit invisible. No one would glare at him too much. Yet any moment now they would notice him and pounce – just like that terror demon had. Instead they argued about him as if their words weren't barbs that tore his heart.

It was his fault. _All his fault_ , the Divine had proclaimed. _He_ had been the one who had summoned the terror demon, and if something wasn't done to train him properly… She had left that last part dangling in the air.

 _I didn't mean to_ , he wanted to say, but his voice was choked.

"There's no doubt he's manifesting abilities. It was inevitable," the Divine said. Her dark eyes bored deep into him and saw everything.

Seith squirmed.

"Then let me teach him," Dorian said. "I can send for my things and conclude my research here. It's what Teniël would've wanted."

"As fabulous as we know you are, darling, you know someone of this boy's calibre requires the safety and stability that only a circle can provide," the Divine said.

"Cassandra?" Dorian implored.

Cassandra leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, her expression severe as she regarded Seith. There was no sign of any kindness in her expression, and Seith imagined that was how Cassandra stared down her enemies just before she ran them through with a sword.

"No, Dorian. I will back the Divine on this matter. We have fought too long and hard for what we've got. We cannot afford to let sentimentality get in our way. As much as we owe Teniël Lavellan our gratitude for all that she's done."

Cassandra hated him.

Seith blinked back tears and stared at his hands instead, and tried to stop himself from clutching at his knees. This was it. They would pack him up and drag him away in the morning, away from everyone and everything he held dear.

A lone tear escaped, ran a short way down his cheek then plopped on his breeches. The fabric darkened as it absorbed the liquid, and then another crystalline tear broke. The pain spread its tendrils through him. No one wanted him. The Apostate hadn't stayed. Neither had his mother. And now he was being sent to a place where he wouldn't be a danger to anyone. They'd lock him up in a tower and throw away the key.

It would've been better if he'd never been born, if he'd never troubled anyone. Seith sucked in a deep, miserable breath, and made himself even smaller. A drubbing started at the edge of his hearing, like great bellows in the Undercroft when Dagna busy at the forge. A pressure kindled in his head and chest, and a tingling spread from his extremities. The tension in the war room seemed to recede. If he could just make himself smaller, and somehow just not… _there_ …

Seith gave a little sigh, and felt how all the hair on his arms and on his head began to prickle, just like the night before. If he could pull demons out of the Fade, surely he could pull himself the other way, and then he wouldn't be a problem for anyone anymore.

For the first time in hours, Seith allowed himself a tiny, brittle smile.

# # #

 _ **Author's note:**_ _Yes, I'm a terrible person leaving the penultimate chapter on a cliff-hanger like this. #sorrynotsorry_


	7. Chapter 7

_A Letter from Lace Harding, to her sister, Danica Harding, 9:43._

 _Dear Danica_

 _Thank you for that last care package – and especially for that mosquito repellent which I find myself in dire need of. No prizes for guessing where I've been stationed, yet again, but Dagna is convinced she's onto something, and she spends far too much time digging holes and sifting through rubble than can be deemed healthy._

 _We've been sent back here after so many years. Inquisitor Pentaghast is convinced we might yet uncover fresh evidence, especially in the light that the troops stationed at the base here have reported strange lights during the night that correspond to the events that transpired at Skyhold._

 _At any rate, she's taking it seriously enough to send us out despite the fact that I've argued against it. Dagna hasn't been well of late, and I'm concerned that the humidity of this climate – in addition to all the bugs – will not be good for her._

 _I guess I should add a little epilogue to our woes by saying why exactly we're out here in the Arbor Wilds again. It would appear that our erstwhile Inquisitor's boy turned out to be a wild talent in the magic department. Not that this was altogether unexpected considering who his parents were. He went missing under mysterious circumstances on exactly the same day that our scouts reported events here in the Wilds. There may be a correspondence between these phenomena. Or so the Divine seems to think._

 _Not much would have come of this if it hadn't been for the Commander. Ferlise tells me he's beside himself with grief, and that he blames himself for everything that has gone wrong so far. Of course the Chantry has made it a priority that the boy be found, and it's a race against time as to whether the Inquisition or the Templars will get to him first. He's just a little kid, sister. And now he's being hunted. Along with the Apostate. While I can't vouch for the latter, all I can say is the few times I've met Seith, he's the sweetest, most retiring little boy I've ever encountered, and the Divine is painting him out to be the greatest evil since Corypheus wielded that orb._

 _I don't know anymore. I wish things were different._

 _All my love,_

 _Lace_

# # #

Chapter 7

Skyhold, 9:49

Dead leaves and rich, dark earth scrunched between Seith's fingers when he came to his senses. The twilit forest was the same one from his dreams, the air moist and laden with the presence of greenery. Around him, the undergrowth was alive with the flittings of small creatures. Strange birds bugled and trumpeted from the canopy, and a multitude of insects and frogs added their voices to the cacophony.

He drew a deep breath and slowly pushed himself up into a seated position. Where and how didn't even begin to describe how he felt. One moment he'd been shrinking into nothingness at the war table. The next was … here. _Now_.

Unseen, a river splashed and gurgled to his left. Massive ferns unfurled their spiral fronds and leaned drunkenly past the massive buttress roots of forest giants. A centipede longer than his arm wriggled less than two feet from him, and he sat perfectly still until the monstrosity had whispered beneath a log.

Everything ached and he so very thirsty. Not to mention hungry.

 _Alone_.

So very alone.

Seith bit back a whimper, cross with himself. It was all his own fault for even thinking of trying to run away.

"You've really done it this time," he murmured to no one in particular. He was in so much trouble.

But then what of that dream he'd had? The one where he'd also been in this forest, and when he'd woken up his feet had been dirty? Did that mean he'd managed to come here before and somehow found his way back to the tower room on his own?

A small swell of hope bloomed in his chest. He could go back. It was as simple as squeezing his eyes shut and..

The Divine was there, back at Skyhold. Waiting to take him to that Circle. Maybe he could wait a while. A day or two. Maybe she'd be gone and he could go back then. Hide for a while. Even if he had to be in that mouldy old book room… But then again, Cassandra was the Inquisitor now, and she had agreed with the Divine that he had to go.

There was no returning to Skyhold. The finality of this realisation made him suck in his breath.

The Commander would stand alone there on the battlements, wondering, wouldn't he? This time Seith felt really, really sad, and allowed two tears to roll down his cheeks before he smeared them away with the back of his hand. He was a big boy now. Big boys didn't cry. Even when they hurt.

Would he ever see his father again? Thing was, the Commander wasn't really his father, was he? No matter how hard he pretended, Seith couldn't change that fact, and a pain was lodged deep in his chest.

What now? What of the Apostate? What made Seith think he could find him if everyone else had failed so far? He laughed and imagined walking through the forest calling Solas's name. That was a stupid thing to do. Who knew what else would hear him calling out and come looking for the silly, small boy? Big bears, wolves and other things with sharp teeth lived in forests. He might end up something else's dinner.

So he walked, quietly as only a small, lost boy could – the way he'd walked countless times in Skyhold when he didn't want anyone to notice him. Seith found the river, and paused to drink where it was shallow. The water was dark, and where the remains of an old bridge stuck up like old, broken teeth, the water swirled with white rapids.

He found a place where a tumbled pillar created a bridge, and he hopped over the gaps until he reached the other side. Then he hunkered beneath a tangle of ferns. Something he'd heard the Commander say returned – if in lost, follow a river. Should he go up or down? Down meant that the river would go out and hopefully past a village.

Seith's stomach grumbled again, and he pressed his fists into his belly.

"Shush," he said.

As if his stomach would talk to him or he could squish the hunger away. This thought almost made him laugh. He was getting silly when he should be strong and serious. What else would the Commander do? His gaze fell on a branch that lay half out of the water.

A weapon. That was it.

Seith scurried forward and grabbed hold of the stick, which ended up taller than him, but when he pulled the smaller branches off, he had something that he could use to smack at any creature that tried to eat him. Satisfied that he was better off than a moment ago, he set off downriver, keeping to the parts of the bank where the ground was firm, and treading carefully so that he didn't leave footprints. His games with Gerda, Shey and Grayden had taught him that much. Grayden's father was a scout, so Grayden had often told them stories about what his dad sometimes did.

What about fire? He paused and looked about. Not much in the way of firewood. All the branches that were scattered about either looked too big for him to handle, or the wood was covered in a frizz of lichen and moss. He needed dry wood to make fire.

Not tonight, though. He'd figure out something, right? His breath hitched when he noticed it was getting darker a lot quicker than he'd expected. The shadows slid from under rocks and pooled at the roots, and Seith walked a bit faster, kept checking behind him to see whether there was anyone following him.

 _Tjirrrrr-tjirrrr_ whispered the insects, and that was when he thought he heard the whispers… the same ones from the stables and from that night in the herb garden.

 _Seith… Seith_ …

"No," he said just as he stumbled and fell over a pile of stones that had been obscured by a creeper. Sharp pain bit into his knees and palms, and he sucked in a small scream.

Even as he crouched in the gloom, he could feel the warm liquid trickle from his skinned knees, and the grazed skin on his palms prickled with fire. Blood.

There was no one here to make it better. He was on his own.

He was not going to cry. He was brave.

Seith scrunched his eyes and forced himself to his feet.

 _Seith_ …

The shadows around him thickened, the air became soupy, and that awful drubbing started at the back of his head. Like big drums beaten by darkspawn in the Deep Roads, like in the stories he'd heard.

Seith started running. Or rather, he stumbled – this time away from the river and upslope, between the pillars of trunks. Vegetation slapped him through the face, thorns caught his skin and his hair, but he wasn't going to wait for whatever it was that was after him to catch him.

He should go back to Skyhold, to safety, despite the threat the Divine posed. But try as he might, he couldn't quite shape his ability to touch the space between everything. Surely he could escape from the Circle once he was there? He could be safe there for a little while before he figured out what he wanted.

Every breath wheezed past his lips and his throat was on fire. With each fall, Seith clambered right back onto his feet. He was sure the bushes crashed behind him, that something big was giving chase, that he heard the heavy _whuff_ of some huge creature that pursued him.

A wordless wail ripped from him as he fled, and without warning, he reached the top of the slope, and the ground vanished from beneath his feet.

For a few moments he was airborne, tumbling head over heel. Then he connected with the hard ground and had the wind knocked out of him. All he could do was lie there, dazed, and faintly note that a rock twice his size poked out of the leaf litter less than a hand's breadth from his head. If he'd landed a few inches further to his right, he'd have brained himself.

A creepy green luminescence played over the tree trunks and caught flashes on the undersides of leaves. It was all happening again. Things tearing into his world from the Fade to come get him. Seith sat up, hurting all over but filled with the urgency to keep moving.

A high-pitched screech faded into hearing – all too familiar – and Seith rocketed to his feet. Terror demon. This was it. He had nowhere to run anymore. He backed up against a tree trunk, the bark rough beneath his hands as he clutched at the support. In the wavering light from the hole in the very fabric of reality, the long, spindly legs took shape as the demon stepped out of the Fade.

 _No one here to help you_ …

Whatever fear had kept Seith going had been depleted. He was empty, numb. He could only stare as the thing's mouth flapped open and it screeched again, the sound a knife that stabbed right at the heart of him. This was not how it was supposed to end. That thought sent a hot flush of anger through Seith. If he was supposed to be so dangerous, as the Divine had put it, that he had to be locked up in a tower with other mages, then surely one terror demon was nothing for him to worry about.

Right?

He was tired. Lost. Angry. And he'd had enough. If this was the end then he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Seith straightened and sucked in a breath, even though his chest hurt. He made a fist of his right hand and pulled with all his anger at the light bleeding out of the hole, felt how the power streamed into him and set him on fire.

"Go away and leave me alone!" he shouted at the looming terror demon.

Then, like he'd seen Danae do while she was training, he punched, and let go of all that fear, anger and injustice. Light exploded around his fist followed by a soft crump of the air. The green light from the Fade solidified around him and shot out to connect with the demon. The thing collapsed back into the hole and then, standing like he'd seen so many of the images of his mother, Seith willed that horrible fissure to close.

If his mother could do it, surely he could do it too? He cried out as something tore in his hand and a crackling power surged through him, like lightning bolts, and his entire world felt like he was hollowed out, drawn thin like a bowstring.

Just when he felt that he'd blink out of existence, an implosion dropped him to his knees. His ears were ringing, and his limbs had gone all rubbery. All he could do was lie there, like a broken doll, while the sounds of the forest slowly came to life around him, first with the hesitant _tjrrr-trrrrr_ of a bug, and then a frog.

How long he lay like that, he wasn't sure, but all he knew was that he wasn't scared anymore. When he was certain that his hands, feet, arms and legs, though bruised but not broken, would work, Seith slowly stood, leaning heavily on a chunk of masonry.

Only then, in the gloom between the trees, could he fully appreciate where he stood – an open area that had once possibly been a courtyard. Firebugs glinted into life, one by one, and swayed between the stumps of pillars. Moonlight washed through from gaps in the canopy and bathed the forest in soft light.

But it was not so much the firebugs that caught his attention, but the cowled figure that hurried towards him from the arched entrance.

"Da'len, are you all right?" the figure asked.

Seith could have wept with relief, but he firmed his lips and nodded once, a trembling hand pressed against his side. Maybe his wild magic had brought him away from Skyhold to be exactly where he needed to be. For now. Each breath was an agony, but he'd be damned if he let on how much he hurt.

He wasn't a little boy anymore.

# # #

Author note:

We're going to be hopping forward a few years after this, to meet someone else who's equally dear to me, but I promise this is not the last we've seen of Seith. Just that I'd like to shroud him in a little mystery. ;-)

Feel free to yell at me over at Twitter nerinedorman


	8. A Jar of Bees

\- _10 years later_ -

Chapter 8

Redcliffe, 9:59

For once the Velvet Slipper verged on empty. This was a good thing, because Donna had a quiet moment to put the finishing touches to the overview for her next novel. She frowned at the much-folded scrap of paper. Instead of a logical chapter breakdown, the page looked as if a drunk spider had waltzed all over it. And, remaining on the topic of spiders, just what exactly had she been thinking leaving cryptic notes about three giant spiders in the duke's garden? Surely the heroes were only going to encounter the spiders once they'd entered the Tevinter ruins…

Laughter from across the tavern caught her attention, and Donna glanced up to see Evan chattering to Sana and Felice. She frowned. Evan should be tuning his lute, not flirting, and the two serving-women had other tasks to occupy their time. And yuck, Sana couldn't be more obvious, the way she was pretty much shoving her tits in Evan's face.

Yet when Donna glanced toward the bar area, Rory wasn't in his usual spot.

 _When the dragon's away, the gurns will play_ …

Though she couldn't help a smirk comparing the two human wenches to gurns, she could never compare Evan to one. Maybe a halla… For a human he was fine-boned and graceful. Yes, that's how she would describe him. Her face warmed slightly at the thought.

She was no better than those three, really, skiving off before things got busy and they should be preparing for the evening rush. Donna rubbed at a smudge on her thumb. Then again, patrons wouldn't care whether the dwarf watching the door had inky fingers. With a sigh, she blew on the paper to get the ink dry, then screwed the lid back on the bottle and tucked away her pen.

Later tonight, once the last patrons had left, she'd start chapter one – if it wasn't too late. Maybe write for an hour or so while the girls cleaned up. Maybe Evan would join her for a quiet pint. Maybe he'd walk her home. Lots of maybes.

Not that she needed looking after. It was more the other way round, but she appreciated the company on the nights when he didn't end up entertaining some dumb sloozie.

Yeah. Pathetic. She couldn't expect the good-looking human to notice the dwarf, and how could she compete with the next willowy blonde when she was short and a bit too much on the solid side? And with hair that verged on ginger rather than blond. Ugh. No way. Sure, so she could split an arrow at twenty paces, but there was one target she'd never hit with one of her knives.

It came as no surprise that majority of heroes in her stories were blond, storm-eyed charmers with golden voices. Her only consolation was that Evan couldn't be arsed to open one of her books, otherwise he may have figured out by now that he was the object of her fascination. Some things were better left unsaid.

After all, he couldn't have stated it more clearly when he'd told her over a drunken hand of wicked grace that she was the sister he'd never had. Gee, thanks.

Her romantic prospects here in Redcliffe weren't good, either. Sweet nineteen, and days away from twenty, and never been kissed. Okay, there'd been that one time where she and Evan had gotten horribly drunk while walking out on the docks near dawn, and they'd been talking blighted rubbish, and for a moment things had looked as if he might move on her… And then he'd gotten distant on her, and the next time she'd seen him, he'd been running around with the miller's daughter. Which had lasted all of four weeks until her father forbade her from "fraternising with no-good low sorts", as she'd heard it stated by several reliable sources.

Not that Evan was a "low sort" by her measure. He said he'd family out in Lothering, but had come to Redcliffe while some sort of kerfuffle blew over – possibly something to do with someone's daughter. Problem was he was too damned nice.

To everyone.

Having a pretty face didn't hurt either.

He never meant to break hearts, but that was just what he did.

And that voice of his. The moment he strummed that lute and started a song, he cast some sort of enchantment on all who heard him. He could charm a wyvern into rolling over and playing dead. Or at least that's what the hero in her novel, _The Bard's Gambit_ , had done. Art imitating life. Donna sighed.

 _I'm pathetic._

And her mother was frantic. "At your age now, you should have been married… What about that nice boy from Highever? His father is well connected with the guild. You'd never want for anything…"

Fortunately, there were few dwarven folk of marriageable age in Redcliffe, so she'd managed to evade most of her mother's "suggestions" up until this point.

So far as she was concerned, Donna had her work and her passion, and while she knew she'd not be on security detail forever, it did mean that she met new people nearly ever day and heard stories – which worked out perfectly for her inspiration.

Granted, if her mother ever found out that her darling daughter Donna Kovash was the woman behind Scarlett Thorne, author of bodice-rippers and adventures, she'd possibly have conniptions right on the spot. It was bad enough that Donna had a fascination for sharp objects.

 _Sometimes, you're just like your father._

By that, she _didn't_ mean Aeldric Kovash, master silversmith. Oh blighted wastes no. Sometimes it gave Donna a savage pleasure just to rub it in Ceren's face that the result of a youthful indiscretion with the now infamous Varric Tethras was turning out to be _exactly_ like her father.

And, while Aeldric was aware that his beloved wife had indulged in said youthful indiscretion, this hadn't proved to be an impediment to their union, because Ceren had gone on to give him not one but _two_ sons to continue the proud Kovash tradition.

Donna scowled. Tradition be damned.

Ceren no doubt regretted the day she'd let slip that particular nugget of truth related to Donna's _actual_ father. What a row that had been. Donna had that effect on some people.

"Why's your face like a thundercloud, Donna-love?" Rory had, in typical fashion, somehow managed to sneak up on her.

Donna jerked slightly in fright, guiltily folded up the paper she still held, and turned to her boss. "Just annoyed. Family stuff."

The bald man glanced at the folded page but then turned to the door. "There's a merchant in from Haven. He's bringing his lads round for a meal and a few pints within the hour. Look sharp."

Donna huffed a sigh of relief as her boss returned to his usual spot. Normally she kept him in the corner of her eye, and she was grateful he hadn't said anything acerbic about her scrawlings. Rory found her preoccupation with the written word "quaint", as he put it, and he usually didn't mind her using the tavern as a writing spot. Also, it made a convenient address for any of her correspondence from her publisher in Kirkwall. Ceren loved snooping, and Donna's mail was fair game. So Donna owed Rory quite a bit, which meant she had to be on top of things when on duty.

Which she was, technically, now, and she was lucky he hadn't given her the hairy eyeball for any woolgathering. She slipped the paper into her pocket and patted it for good measure. This would be a good story. Her publisher would snap it up, for sure. Especially since she'd done her research shooting the breeze with that Inquisition agent who'd told her about the time he'd encountered those giant spiders in some Tevinter ruins. That was a degree of authenticity she could add to the tale that few could rival. Though of course she'd have to change a few details…

Business picked up soon, for which Donna was grateful. Evan, predictably, had vanished – probably to his rooms upstairs. He liked making a grand entrance. Sana and Felice were kept busy running between the kitchen and the bar, while Donna took up her position near the entrance, where she could keep a watchful eye on everyone who entered and exited.

Some of the patrons were regulars, and would stop to chat. Others, who were clearly visiting for the first time, gave her the eyeball, got an eyeful of her twin daggers then preferred to pay attention to finding a place to sit. Donna rarely had trouble, and even then, men had a few tender spots she was perfectly situated to target that would ensure instant compliance.

All things considered, Redcliffe was a sleepy sort of place, even for a dockside town. Blighted wastes, kids were growing up who weren't even born when the Inquisition put down Corypheus. Donna had been a wee sprite when all that nug dung had gone down, though Ceren still spoke about some of the terrors that Redcliffe had to endure what with the whole business with the mages. Donna was also fairly certain that Master Tethras himself embroidered his tales to make them a little more spectacular. Yet she couldn't help but wonder what it must've been like to live during those times.

Granted, things were hardly perfect now, considering the continued friction between Orlais and the Tevinter Imperium. And of course there was always the Qun to consider – though there hadn't been a raid in months. All of these problems seemed so distant from docile little Redcliffe. Evil Venatori inhabited bedtime scare stories for the littlies, and were rarely brought up at fireside discussions, where adults were more likely to complain about bears raiding beehives or their neighbours' goats getting into their vegetables.

Predictably, the buzz of conversation in the tavern dropped the moment Evan started his performance. He had this particular way of insinuating himself into his chosen corner so that not even Donna noticed until he picked up his instrument. His voice wove between the conversations, soft and mellow, but has he warmed up with a favourite – "The ballad of the Highwayman's Daughter" – most patrons had shut their mouths and were entranced.

Oh, and could Evan sing. She'd heard these songs more times than she could count, and they never failed to prickle her skin in gooseflesh. His voice was best described as honey ale, smooth yet at times surprisingly rich and deep.

By all rights he should be performing in the best inns of Denerim, or even the salons of Val Royeaux. Yet here he was, this beautiful man with the stunning voice, who mesmerised and made the Velvet Slipper a more precious place for part of an evening.

When Evan sang, Donna could study his fine features unabashed. In her stories he could be a duke's son or an errant prince. She never tired of casting him in those roles, and imagined what it must be like to run her fingers through his spun gold hair that he wore loose and brushing his shoulders… And those eyes, she could get lost in those eyes… Donna would love to tell him they reflected the light off Lake Calenhad, but she daren't drop a whisper where anyone who knew her would hear.

 _Damned romantic fool_ , she chided herself.

It proved to be a good night for the Velvet Slipper. Evan had two encores, and even took requests, which was rare, because he often had plenty to say about others' choices in music. By the time the last patron left, it was well past midnight, and Donna had to ruefully admit that there'd be no writing this night. Instead she helped straighten the furniture, which gained her Rory's thanks and Sana and Felice's tired smiles. The folded slip of paper felt as if it burnt a hole in her trouser pocket, and it galled her that her own work had to wait.

Evan was waiting for her outside when she'd said her farewells to her boss and she pulled on her coat. He leaned on the balustrade, a goblet caressed carelessly in one hand.

"You sang well tonight," Donna said.

Evan turned, the moonlight catching the spill of his hair. "Hey, lady fair. It would appear so."

"Well, I'm headed home then."

She hoped he'd walk with her, but he made no move to do so, except watch her with a peculiar expression.

"What?" she asked.

"Um, I meant to say something sooner but…"

Donna's pulse sped up. He was about to drop a jar of bees on her. She just knew it.

"But…" she said, when he wasn't immediately forthcoming.

"But." He wet his lips. "I'm leaving to go home. To Lothering. Tomorrow's my last night."

"When…" The word came out choked. "Did…" He hadn't said anything to her at all. Even the day before yesterday when they'd gone for a walk up to the ruined mill, and he'd still been joking about a song he planned to sing at the harvest festival. Her heart felt as if she'd shoved one of her daggers between her ribs and tried to pry it loose. Surely he must have known by then already.

He turned to gaze out across the lake again, and sipped from the goblet. She wanted to kick his arse, but instead she stood clenching her hands.

"I had word from my aunt. She needs me to come home."

After a year of no word. This wasn't fair.

 _You knew it wouldn't last_.

"Oh," was all Donna managed to say. Her tongue had gone numb and unwieldy in her mouth, and her words were clay. She waited for him to say more, but then the mere thought of remaining there to wait for further daggers became too much.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Donna said. "Night." She passed him and went down the three stairs, and even as she hurried, she hoped he'd say something, that he'd call her back to explain, but all she got from him was a silence so heavy she could barely draw breath. The tears finally came when she was halfway home, and she dashed them away with angry gestures.

 **Author's note:**

I've always felt that the lady dwarves don't get enough attention. I promise we'll get back to Seith soon, and he'll be all nicely grown up with a mysterious chunk of 10 years for you to fret about. What happened?


	9. An Unexpected Guest

Chapter 9

Redcliffe, 9:59

The inescapable weight of Evan's news crashed into Donna's morning with the same ferocity as the pounding on her bedroom door.

"Wake up!" It was her brother, Haden, and he continued to hammer at the door while she groaned into her pillow. Knowing Haden, he probably thought she'd been drinking the night before.

"Go away," she mumbled.

"Wake up, Donna! Uncle Ortzen is here!"

"I'm awake!" she yelled. Feck. Two words she'd hoped not to hear today: _Uncle_ and _Ortzen_. In the same sentence.

Her blighted brother rapped again at the door, possibly out of spite, then the little fool left her in peace. She breathed a sigh of relief.

As if Evan's jar of bees from the night before wasn't bad enough, Uncle Ortzen's surprise visit was far, far worse. He had regular dealings with the folk at Orzammar, and wasn't as relaxed with regard to certain social niceties as her step-father. So, whenever he came round, Donna had to wear a kirtle and act like a woman who knew her place, and be in the kitchen, where all good womenfolk were supposed to be.

And not a word to the old fool that she worked down at one of the locals. As a hired guard, no less. Horror upon horrors.

Nor a single word breathed that she paid her parents rent for the privilege of having an income; her mother thought it would encourage her to quit her activities, and her step-father felt her work would teach her responsibility. Sod that.

Uncle Ortzen must've arrived in the dead of night while she was at the Velvet Slipper, and Ceren would have spun him a story or two to explain where his "beloved niece" was early this morning. Granted, when she'd been a wee sprite, she'd actually _liked_ Uncle Ortzen, because he'd brought her candies and trinkets, but the moment her brothers had made their appearance in the household, she'd been shoved to one side. Just a girl. Who was supposed to help her mother in the kitchen. Who said "yes, uncle" and "no, uncle" and "would you like me to fill your tankard, uncle".

While Aeldric doted on Donna, despite not being her real father, and allowed her to get away with "blighted murder" as Ceren so often put it, Ortzen, however, was another matter. Being younger, Aeldric deferred to his brother.

"Coryphy-fecking-eus' blue balls, I wonder how long he's going to stay this time," Donna grumbled as she padded over to her chest of drawers. Her room was a state as well. It was not that she meant for things to become untidy; it was just that she couldn't be arsed to worry about whether her bed was made or her coats were hung up so they didn't wrinkle. There were more important things to do during the day, like go spend time on archery practice with Merrim or see whether she could convince her friend Agatha to lend her something else to read.

 _I just can't_.

She found herself leaning with her forehead pressed against the wall, the dressed stone pleasantly cool against her skin.

 _Great, and then I'm going to leave an impression of the wall on my forehead_.

Evan's jar of bees. Her stomach churned miserably and her unhappiness buzzed around her head. She'd hoped to get away a bit earlier so she could spend some time with her friend before he left. Quality time – like maybe she could convince him to go with her to the market so she could buy him some trifle for him to remember her by…

As if. Who was she? His girlfriend? Hardly. One day in the future he might mention her to his friends in Lothering as "this weird dwarven girl who played with knives, that I was friends with during that crazy year in Redcliffe"... and she'd be reduced to a footnote in his life story. If she were lucky, he might even recount the tale where she'd bested all of Redcliffe's huntsmen during the harvest festival archery competition. Then people would smile and nod, and some blond strumpet would stick her tits out at him and he'd completely forget what he was saying...

She'd be lucky to get away at all at this rate, and Uncle Ortzen so loved his extended lunches that somehow acci-magically bled over into dinner. After all, it was the womenfolk who'd be running around like overstuffed nugs preparing the food and ensuring that the ale didn't stop flowing.

"I will not cry… I will not cry…" she said and pinched shut her eyes until the scratchy feeling went away. Pathetic.

This was just another masked ball, like the ones in the Orlesian court in all those romance stories. She could pretend for a day, play the game, and perhaps find a way to escape to the Velvet Slipper later. Anything to keep peace in the house so she could say goodbye to Evan.

She dug her least-rumpled kirtle out of her trunk and put her hair in twin braids. The young woman who stared back at her from the mirror looked sad and watery. At least that's how she'd describe her in a story. Donna practised a smile but her lips refused to hold the required shape. Ah well. There was nothing for it.

A roar of laughter from downstairs told her that Uncle Ortzen was in fine fettle, and possibly well into his second tankard of ale if his volume was anything to go by.

Uncle Ortzen sat in Aeldric's favourite armchair and described a glorious success trading for amber and furs by the time Donna had summoned the courage to enter the living room. Apart from a little more grey in his voluminous dark beard, her uncle was still the ruddy-cheeked individual she'd come to know and loathe.

"Greetings, uncle," she said, and approached him.

"You are looking simply radiant, niece."

"Thank you, uncle. I trust that you are well?" She kept her tone polite, her smile suitably bland.

"Haven't been better. In fact, I've wonderful news for your family, but more on that later at the breakfast table."

Dutifully she pecked him on the cheek and tried not to frown at the wafts of ale coming off him. It was bad enough having to deal with sozzled patrons at the Slipper and then still have to endure a sodden relative in her home. She kept her face neutral.

"Father," she said to Aeldric, who sat in Ceren's armchair also nursing a tankard – one that was mostly full.

Aeldric's smile was mostly a grimace.

She could only imagine how the lost hours of work must be eating him. His business was more important to him than being sociable, and though he loved his brother, Aeldric had often confessed to Donna that he found Ortzen's manners overbearing. Yet for their nominally ascendant family, it was still important to maintain ties with their kalna relatives. Even if the majority of Aeldric's business came from the local human population.

Donna was only too glad to slip into the kitchen where she could help her mother. Even if it meant enduring her pointed words about sleeping late when there was important work to be done – not that cooking for the menfolk featured high on Donna's list of highly desirable activities. Not to mention the never-ending stream of dishes.

Of her brothers there was no sign. Of course. They'd only miraculously appear once the food was ready to serve. That was until she caught sight of Haden out back chopping firewood while Little Aeldric scurried to and fro packing the pieces.

Then she smirked and felt a little better about the ordeal she faced. Not so lucky this time, the little blighted fools.

# # #

The late breakfast predictably mutated into an extended lunch, by which time Donna's hands were raw from scrubbing dishes, cutlery and pots, and she and her mother were barely talking beyond terse requests for salt or kitchen utensils. The only other option was a full-on screaming match, and neither wished to indulge in such a display of emotion when Ortzen was present.

So far he'd hinted at the "big news" in roundabout ways, and Donna did not like the way his gaze seemed to slide in her direction.

"What's going on?" she asked Ceren, just as they were setting out the plates to take through to the living room.

Her mother paused, and wiped away a strand of hair that had escaped her braid. Beyond her obvious exhaustion, Ceren seemed resigned to sharing bad news. That's if Donna was reading her mother's body language right.

"I don't like the way that man's just shown up, out of the blue. Making roundabout comments the whole time. Are we moving? Is that it? Is the Merchant Guild finally sticking all its grubby fingers into Aeldric's business? I thought we were supposed to have escaped all that coming here."

Ceren puffed out a breath and sagged a little against the door. She couldn't quite meet Donna's gaze, and that bothered her. "It's not quite that," she said quietly.

Oh, great. Another jar of bees on top of Evan's.

"What, _Mother_. Spit it out."

She flinched. Donna almost never called her by anything but her first name.

Ceren met Donna's gaze. "I know I'm supposed to not have overheard anything, but…" She inclined her head at the door leading to the living room, where another guffaw exploded from Ortzen, who was no doubt laughing at one of his own jokes.

"Your uncle has… He has arranged an alliance between families that will be most fortuitous for your brothers' future, should we be able to cement ties with a certain House."

The jar of bees dropped on Donna's head, her thoughts buzzing and stinging her in a million places she didn't want to go, but it didn't take a sage to figure out.

"He wants me to marry someone of his choice, doesn't he?" Donna hissed. Her pulse beat erratically, her legs threatened to buckle, and she had to reach out to steady herself on the kitchen counter.

Belligerent drunks – _that_ she could handle. Blighted hells, she'd lost count of how many brawls she'd broken up with a few well-aimed kicks. But marriage?

"Why me? Why us? Am I not too old already?" Donna sneered. "Why would anyone turn to _us_? We're not even _kalna_."

"There's a noble in Orzammar who'd be willing to overlook, um, certain difficulties with regard to our caste. It would be beneficial to the entire Kovash line."

"But I'm not even a _real_ Kovash, Mother!" Donna spat. She grabbed one of her braids and held out the accusing rope of red-gold hair. "You know how many people have commented on this. I don't even _look_ much like you. Or Aeldric for that matter. How Aledric always goes about how his line breeds true. And everyone we spin our lies to just smiles and nods knowingly. We live out here where not many people remark on how I was born a few months 'early' after the wedding." A nasty, malicious thought turned on her tongue. "Or should I say his House's name, Mother? I can shout it, now. So my _uncle_ can hear."

Ceren's usually rosy complexion paled, and she narrowed her eyes. "Don't. You. Dare."

"It begins with a 'T'." Donna bared her teeth and sucked in a breath.

The crack of her mother's palm against her cheek was so sharp, so unexpected, that Donna didn't even think to block it. All Donna could do was press her hand against her stinging cheek in shock, while she stared at her mother.

"Don't make me rue the day I admitted my folly to you," her mother bit out. "You are fortunate you even have a man you can look up to as a father, who provides a roof over your head and who, despite your best interests, pays out all the rope with which you've done your level best to hang yourself with up until now. You're a grown woman. It's time that you face the fact that you have responsibilities. This… this fantasy of yours to be some ne'er-do-well who lurks in taverns with drunks and lechers like your useless father. It must come to an end."

Donna's shame was hot and it felt as if every inch of her flesh had turned crimson. Who was she fooling? The heroine in one of her stories would have flounced out, had words ready to toss back at her mother. Damn it. No. None of Donna's heroines would ever have been in this sort of predicament in the first place. Tears threatened, but she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her wrist.

"Sorry," Donna choked out.

In the other room, Ortzen brayed with laughter, and Donna felt herself shrink a little.

"Now, go take out the bread so long then come get the meat." Ceren was all business like, as if the fact that she'd just struck her daughter for the first time in her adult life had not happened at all.

Donna hated her at that moment, could think of half a dozen ways in which she could see her mother suffer some terrible fate, but she kept her mouth shut and did what she was told.

# # #

After everything, Ortzen's great announcement was anticlimactic, and as it was, he made such a hash over slurred and stumbled sentences that even Aeldric looked pained. By that stage, most of the words had turned into a meaningless jumble in Donna's ears. All she could visualise was the enclosing stone-hewn walls of Orzammar, described in great detail in the books she'd read, but not something she'd ever imagined to encounter herself.

To never see the sky again? Feel the sun on her face? The mere thought made her shudder. Donna wasn't stupid. She'd heard the hushed conversations whenever the occasional merchant stopped by Aeldric's workshop. Nor as this the first time there'd been talk of her considering a suitor. Though now she'd been placed in predicament where saying no might have longer-term consequences for her family.

Fewer and fewer children were being born to the dwarves who lived in the ancient halls, and Ceren clearly came of good stock; even if she was ascendant, her family had been of noble birth only a generation before and were proven fertile. Donna seethed to consider that she'd been reduced to mere breeding stock, to be traded at whim.

When it became time for her to make ready for work, she excused herself politely, and retired upstairs. Ceren had cast her a warning glance, which she'd ignored, and no sooner had she shut the door to her bedroom, that her mother pushed it open and slipped inside.

"Mother," Donna warned.

"You can't go now," Ceren said.

"I have work."

"Aelrdic already sent Haden down with word that you were unwell."

Another hot-white burst of anger burnt through her but Donna drew three, deep breaths before she responded. "You mean you _lied_ to Rory?"

"It's for the greater good. You never take time off, in any case. Family's more important than those human scum. Please, Donna. Be good about this. Just this time."

"They're talking about this as if my agreement is a foregone conclusion," Donna said, then went to go sit on her unmade bed. So drained. She cradled her head in her hands and wondered briefly how hard she'd have to push with her index and middle fingers to pop her eyeballs. As if that would bring relief.

"I'm tired. Leave me be. I don't care what you tell that bloated fool downstairs. Maybe I'm overcome with joy at the prospect that I'm to be wed to some half-blind, desperate male so worried about the extinction of his minor House that he'd marry a surfacer. I am not some bitch to be mated with an ageing but favourite hound so I can whelp his litter."

Donna collapsed back on her bed and pulled the pillow over her head. Anything to smother out the small incidental noises of her mother's bracelets chiming, or the swish of her kirtle against the bed. She lay like one already dead, until her mother quietly let herself out, and Donna was certain she was alone.


	10. All it Requires is That First Step

Chapter 3

Redcliffe, 9:59

Donna lay on her bed for a long, long time, until her uncle's hateful laughter died down, and she could only imagine that he'd passed out after the prodigious quantities of ale he'd consumed. She rose and peered out her window, and the dusky twilight filled her with dismay. By now the Velvet Slipper would be filling with folks having a pint after work or travellers spending coin on a meal. Evan would be getting ready to play.

Rory would have to ask someone else to stand guard by the door. Or maybe he'd just keep an extra eye out. Who knew? Would he be disappointed in her? Most likely.

Here Donna was, trapped like a rat in her bedroom, while her family plotted to pack her off as if she were no more than a prize broodmare. What of her stories? Could she still write and get them published all the way from dank Orzammar? Or would she be too busy running after little snotty-nosed brats? Would she be cooped up in some dusty, dark residence and subsist on whatever mouldy food her husband's coin bought? Frankly, the idea of bringing new life into this world scared her even more than the threat of never seeing the sun again.

Her chest grew tight, and Donna opened her windows to let in the night air. Her family's home was high up against the slopes and had a lake view, but Donna's rooms faced toward the mountain and all she saw when she looked out her window was the boughs of pines. During summer, the resinous scent rose with the sun, and even now, in the balmy evening, she could capture the ghost of this scent.

Her heart quickened when she saw first one then two firebugs flitting about – their ghostly little green lights eerie against the deeper dark of the trees. Redcliffe was never completely quiet. Even now, she could hear dogs barking, and a mother a few houses down calling for her children to come inside – all normal sounds she'd miss.

"No," Donna said. That one little word gave her so much pleasure. "I don't have to put up with this." She peered over the edge of her windowsill. The kitchen garden was to her right, its wall high enough to obscure anyone trying to look in – or out. The room directly below hers was a storeroom, in any case, where her stepfather kept most of his supplies. No one would be there to glance out the window. Ostensibly, Donna could drop carefully over the edge of her sill and sneak out of the property. The only challenge would be getting past their neighbour's geese and then Donna would be in one of the lanes running between a row of homes.

The immensity of her decision nearly gutted her. She was seriously contemplating running away. To what? To whom?

Merrim. At least to talk. Maybe the old Inquisition soldier would have some advice. Then, on to the Velvet Slipper. At least to say goodbye to Evan. Or even… A slow grin spread across her lips. She could offer to accompany him. Of all people, he'd understand exactly why she didn't want to settle down with some old goat so she could bear his brats.

Once she got to Lothering, she could send word, reassure her mother and Aeldric that she hadn't been eaten by darkspawn or fallen down a hole in a forgotten, ruinous temple. Quickly, she pulled off her kirtle and dressed in her leathers. Her favourite boots had never felt so welcome. The hair, of course, was problematic.

But a reckless energy surged through her and Donna palmed one of her throwing knives and hacked off first one, then the other braid. The resultant mess was awful, but dropping the twin braids on the floor filled her with a savage glee. A symbolic gesture – there was no going back. Her breath was short and her stomach squirmed. This was really happening. She would put in practice what she'd only ever written about in her stories.

 _Don't spend too much time thinking on the consequences. Just act_.

What to pack was another problem. She needed to travel light. A change of clothes, underwear. Feminine necessities. Sewing kit. Whetstone and oils. A few of her tools, so she could at least make new arrows or repair her bow. She'd purchase a water canister and rope at the market. Her winter cloak, which was lined with wolf fur. Pen and ink. One journal.

She eyed her books with dismay, especially the first-edition copies written by her father. Ouch. That hurt. Her own two slim volumes sat snug next to them: _The Bard's Gambit_ and _In the Dracolisk's Den_. Those would all remain, and she could only hope her mother didn't have them destroyed. Though there wasn't much space in her pack, she relented and folded up some blank pages for her current work in progress.

The immensity of her actions slammed into her anew. All this she was leaving behind… the mobiles made from bits of shell; the watercolours a friend had gifted her for her name-day; the small mabari statue Aeldric had cast from silver for her – all either too fragile or too unwieldy to take along.

Money. She'd almost forgotten that. Stupid.

Donna dug in what she'd affectionately termed her Box of Many Things, and lifted the pouch that contained twenty silvers and a few bronze pieces, as well as a handful of coppers. It wasn't much, but it'd do. Until she found gainful employment.

She checked that her daggers were snug in their sheaths, strapped on the harness, then grabbed her quiver and bow. Damn. Was she going to war? It certainly felt like it. Pack in hand, cloak over one arm, she paused at the window and cast one long look around her room. Her heart beat wildly. _This is it_.

She tried and couldn't quite imagine who would discover she was missing, what her family's responses would be. Anger? Disbelief? Tears? Would they look for her? Would they shun her, pretend that she'd never existed?

"Every adventure begins with that first step," she whispered, not sure where she'd read that or if it was a cliché she'd dragged out of the recesses of her mind.

Then she climbed onto the sill, let her pack fall onto the thick covering of pine needles below, and allowed herself to drop over the edge. Donna landed on cat feet yet remained half crouched, listening and waiting to hear whether there was any response to her egress.

Haden shouted something at Little Aeldric from inside, and their childish voices raised in argument poked blades into her heart. Would she ever see her half-brothers again? She fought the impulse that would have her run to them this instant. Aeldric would be so very disappointed. Ceren would most likely be in denial for weeks before the anger set in.

No. This was it. She'd already taken that first, irrevocable step. There was no turning back, unless she was ready to admit defeat and live out the rest of her miserable life beneath the ground. Dwarven heritage be damned. She was her own woman, and wasn't going to allow others to dictate her future.

Donna gathered her things and adjusted her pack, then snuck out around the back, through the gap in the hedgerow that separated their property from the next. The geese were already penned, and besides, Donna was well practiced in being especially quiet. Merrim would be proud.

Merrim. Someone else she'd be leaving behind. A fresh stab of grief lanced through her. The older woman had become the closest thing to an aunt to Donna over the past seven years since that day they'd met. Oh, and she'd never forget _that_ day either. Donna had been running errands for Aeldric, and some of the merchants' brats had gotten it into their heads to make fun of her. One thing had led to another, and Donna had ended up scrapping with them, only she'd been no match for the four boys. That's when Merrim had stepped in.

 _If you're going to take on a stronger opponent, you've gotta think smart. Not stupid_ , she'd said.

Then she'd taken Donna to her home and helped clean up the worst of the scrapes and scratches. That's where Donna had seen the retired soldier's collection of daggers, and her fascination of sharp, pointy objects had begun. It also certainly helped that Merrim was a valued patron of Aeldric's, so when the woman had offered to train Donna, Aeldric wasn't in a position to say no. After all, it wasn't every day that a decorated veteran took on a student without expectation of some form of payment. Ceren had pouted and huffed about it for a while, but even she had to eventually admit that it was better to have a confident daughter, who stood up for herself, rather than have raised a retiring mouse.

 _I'd bet she's going to regret this tomorrow_.

However the Mage Rebellion and its aftermath still lingered fresh in the hearts and minds of many in Redcliffe, not to forget the war with Corypheus.

In the gloaming, Donna was just one more traveller hurrying along Redcliffe's emptying streets. Merrim lived further up the mountainside, off a track past the old mill. Every step she took made Donna feel lighter, more resolved and, dare she admit it – excited, even?

Buttery yellow rectangles of light spilled out from the one-storey cottage, and a thin trickle of smoke from the hearth curled into the inky sky. Both moons were up, and near full, which made the night as bright as day even here, between the trees. Donna knocked at the front door, conscious that this wasn't the usual time that she'd visit, and for a moment hoped she wasn't intruding.

Katryne, Merrim's partner, unbolted and opened the door, her initial expression concern that quickly melted to pleased surprise once she recognised Donna.

"What have you done to your hair?" the older woman asked.

"What needed to be done ages ago," Donna said. "May I come in?"

Katryne stood back and gestured for Donna to enter, which she did gratefully and left her things in a pile in the hallway before following Katryne into the cosy kitchen.

Merrim sat at the table, poking at the remains of her dinner, and her shrewd gaze missed nothing. She waved at an empty stool for Donna to seat herself.

"Dare I ask what you've done with your hair?" Merrim frowned so hard that the scar disfiguring the right side of her face puckered into a ferocious mask.

Katryne placed a half-tankard of ale before Donna but turned to Merrim when she spoke. "Well, she's come here with packed bags, if that's anything to go by. Something must be up."

"Indeed," Merrim said over steepled fingers. Her remaining grey eye regarded Donna with such bright intelligence that Donna struggled to maintain the contact.

Instead she masked her discomfort by gulping back a mouthful of ale, then wiped her lips with the back of her wrist, and spoke. "My uncle wishes to see me married to some noble in Orzammar, and the situation is …" Despite trying to maintain a stoic façade, Donna felt some of her resolve crumble. Her words remained lodged in her throat, and she blinked back unexpected tears that caused the room to blur.

A stool's legs dragged on the floor tiles, and two sets of warm arms surrounded her, and Donna allowed herself to give vent to the storm of emotions that swirled within her. What in all the blighted hells was she doing?

# # #

Merrim's writing flowed across the page; her long-fingered hand could have belonged to an Orlesian lady writing to her suitor, yet the fingers were callused, and covered in a webbing of faint white scars, and she was missing the tip of her ring finger on her right hand – the hands of a fighter. Hands that had no doubt been drenched in blood. Hands that had killed.

Katryne had cleared the dinner things and prepared tea, which Merrim had insisted they lace with a Fereldan spirit distilled from pears.

Merrim set aside the page so that the ink could dry, then rested both hands palm down on the table top. "You can take that letter of recommendation through to Skyhold. Ask to speak to either Commander Rutherford, or even to Lead Scout Harding. Granted, I know the latter is stationed there permanently now, but I'm not certain of her rank. Either way, they'll be able to advise with regard to your possible recruitment, especially in the light of the fact that you've already received training from me."

"I –" Donna started. "I don't know what to say. I never thought to join the Inquisition."

"Well, they're always looking for good people. At any rate, it will give you a relatively secure footing in life and far better prospects than working as a half-arsed hired goon for a flea-bitten caravan owner or worse, winding up as a cutthroat out of pure desperation."

Merrim held the paper up to the lamplight then, seemingly satisfied that the ink was sufficiently dry, she folded it and slipped it into a waxed envelope. "You keep this safe, you hear? And I expect to hear from you once you arrive at Skyhold. Shouldn't take you more than a week to Haven if you get your butt on a coach. Road's fairly safe. And you're small enough to squeeze yourself onto a supply wain going up to the hold. There's people going up and down every day. Don't be ashamed to drop my name."

"I –" How did Donna begin to explain that Skyhold was in exactly the opposite direction she wanted to go, to follow Evan? Yet everything Merrim said made so much more sense… Even if it felt as if she too had ideas of what Donna should do with her life.

"Well, spit it out, girl."

"It's nothing." Donna shook her head and accepted the envelope, which she slipped into her coat pocket. Her eyes were feeling prickly, presaging tears, and she didn't want to let her emotions get the better of her again. One unseemly display was enough for this night, and she feared there would be many more days when the black dog of her guilt would crawl out of its kennel to chew on her heels.

Merrim's glare suggested she knew there was more that remained unsaid, but she didn't pry. However, something in her expression softened, and she reached out to clasp Donna's hand. "This isn't easy. I know. I had the same with my folks. I was the third daughter, expected to serve in the Chantry when all I wanted to do was ride and go hunting with the boys. When the time came, and my bags were packed already, I slipped out in the middle of the night with only the clothes on my back. Not the wisest choice for a young woman of thirteen summers, and if it weren't for the dubious benevolence a young mercenary captain, my fate may have been rather different. So I'd like to do what I can to ensure that your path forward is smoother than mine was. I can offer that much."

Merrim's eye was suspiciously moist, and Donna swallowed hard to keep her composure.

"I can't even begin to thank you," she told Merrim.

"Just live your life, and send a pair of doddering biddies a letter every once in a while to let us know how you're getting on, all right?"

Katryne nodded, and settled next to her partner, her arm thrown protectively around Merrim's shoulder. The way the lamplight wobbled as the table shifted – either Merrim or Katryne must've unconsciously nudged it – the shadows made their faces seem somehow more careworn than usual.

They were old, Donna realised. In their fifties. Like the father she'd never met – that she never would've met had she followed the course her family had planned for her. Right now, here at this table, her possibilities seemed endless, and the love that these two human women showed her warmed her more than she had expected. Who knew? Maybe she'd be in Kirkwall before winter even, sitting opposite the infamous Varric Tethras and watching his face when she told him who she was. All it took was one step. There were many roads to follow.

"Thank you," Donna said. "I mean it. And I won't let either of you down."


	11. No Goodbyes

Chapter 4

Redcliffe, 9:59

Evan's room was situated on the first storey in the front gable of the building out of which the Velvet Slipper operated, and there were no convenient trees for Donna to scramble up to reach him. Rory would be abed at this hour when the sun was still sulking below the horizon. She didn't want to do anything to make him grumpier than he usually was in the morning, but she felt no such sympathy for Evan.

A handful of small pebbles clutched in one hand, she threw the first, which pattered brightly off the windowpane – hard enough to make a sharp noise, but without too much force. She didn't want to accidentally break glass either.

"C'mon, Evan," she muttered under her breath.

 _Thwick_ , went the second pebble.

 _Thwick_.

 _Thwick_.

She was about to toss the fourth, when a tousle-haired Evan pushed open the small window overlooking the street. He blinked at her for a few moments until he recognised her.

"Donna? I thought you were sick?"

"I'm not. Now get your arse down here and open up for me so I can come in."

"Now?"

"Hurry! It's important."

He stared stupidly at her for a heartbeat then pulled his head back inside.

And then she waited.

Maker's breath, how long did it take him to get downstairs? Donna glanced up and down the road, but apart from a covered wain that had possibly just arrived along the Redcliffe road, this part of the town was still deserted.

Candle- and lamplight gleamed in windows, even as the sky lightened at the east and the last stars faded. Goodwives would be fixing porridge, brewing tea. Sleepy children would be yawning away their dreams while fathers laced their work boots. The day was stirring, and Donna didn't want to stand outside waiting all morning. She'd had a hard enough time convincing Merrim that she couldn't stay for breakfast.

The bolt slid back from the front door and a key grated in the lock. Good. Donna hefted her pack and slipped into the tavern's dim interior, and Evan closed up after her. He wore only a shirt, which left little to the imagination, and Donna studiously kept her gaze to her friend's face instead of straying to the more interesting bits.

"Geeze, Evan, could you not at least put on smalls too?" she asked.

"I have a _guest_. If you must know," he replied, then started for his room.

Donna rolled her eyes – a useless gesture considering Evan had his back to her – then she followed him to the stairs that led up to the living area. He made it impossible to avoid ogling his arse, and she was tempted to pinch it too. She'd certainly threatened to do so in the past.

While Rory kept to the rooms at the back of the building – he preferred not to have the noise from the street disturb his rest – Evan had both front rooms with interlinking doors to himself, since Rory didn't rent to anyone else. Evan's study was in a state, and a quick glance told Donna there was no way that Evan would get all his things into the two travelling chests he'd evidently been packing. Clothes and books were strewn in haphazard piles all over.

"Get yourself something to drink," Evan said and pointed at an earthenware flask that sat on the windowsill.

Donna dropped her things and investigated the contents of the flask. Then suppressed a small groan of dismay as she stoppered the thing. The pear-infused fumes were enough to make her eyes water.

"What the fuck is this shit?"

"Dunno. Rory's parting gift." He grinned at her.

"You can strip varnish with this."

" _Evvvvie_ ," a woman called from the bedroom. "Who're you talking to?"

"Andraste's tits, Evan, who'd you roll in the sheets with last night?" Donna asked. She thanked the Maker she'd long ago learnt to keep her dismay from showing. It still didn't stop her from feeling that familiar twinge of disappointment.

A small frown creased Evan's forehead, and he murmured, "I think her name is Therese." Then he called over his shoulder, "Coming, my sweet, just talking to a friend."

"Evan, _we_ need to talk," Donna said. "As in have a serious talk."

"You're not in the family way, are you?" His expression was pure bewilderment.

"Not yet." Donna levelled her best death glare at him – the kind that would make darkspawn wither.

"Can I go put on some clothing then?"

Donna snorted. "I'll be downstairs in the kitchen, all right? Some tea?"

He nodded then turned and ambled back to the bedroom where, mercifully, he closed the door.

Donna stood there stupidly for a moment, shrugged, and went downstairs again. What else could she do? There was no place to sit here, and, besides, she already had a gut feel that Evan's idea of getting dressed would possibly involve a diversion _before_ he slipped into his clothes.

Like the last time a small group of friends had ended up spending the night. Talk about awkward. And Evan and whichever floozy he'd been banging back then hadn't exactly been subtle about it. She still cringed when she recalled the high-pitched yipping noises the woman had made, as if she were a small dog. They'd gone on and on…

The worst part was pretending later that she hadn't heard every sound, and Evan had just acted as if none of that had happened.

Donna grimaced and started with the tea. The kitchen here at the Slipper was another place she'd miss, she realised while she got the fire going. She'd lost track of how many nights they'd all sat here for a last mug of something, or even the early suppers they'd shared before shift started. For a human, Rory had been halfway decent. Actually, he'd been genuinely kind and had treated Donna no differently than he'd treated Evan or the girls who came to work as servers. The Slipper had been like a second home these past three years.

And now she felt like a shit because she hadn't had the opportunity to tell him that she'd be leaving his employ, save for the letter she'd slip under his door before she scarpered.

Predictably, she ended up staring moodily into the flames while Evan took his sweet time. The early breakfast she'd enjoyed at Merrim's was already a memory, and her stomach grumbled fiercely. Not that she could eat now, even if she wanted to, because she wasn't entirely certain whether she was hungry nor whether her fears for the future weren't twisting like dragonlings in her belly.

She'd just poured the tea by the time Evan wandered into the kitchen, this time dressed and marginally neater. He had his hair pulled back in a tight queue, and he smelled of jasmine and musk.

"So, what's gotten you turned out of bed at this hour?" he asked as he accepted his tea from her.

"I've left home," Donna said.

To his credit, Evan merely blew on the mug and leaned against the kitchen table. "How so?"

"My…uncle… Decided that it was high time that I produce heirs for some stuffy noble in Orzammar."

That obtained a raised brow from Evan. "I thought you surface-dwellers weren't welcome there."

"Dunno. Times are changing, I guess."

"So you packed and left?"

"Yep."

An uncomfortable silence hung between them.

 _Ask me to come with you_ , Donna wanted to shout. Instead she sipped her tea and steeped in her misery. Merrim's letter to the Inquisition felt as if it glowed in her coat pocket.

"Merrim's written me a recommendation to join the Inquisition," Donna added.

"Oh." Evan frowned. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Dunno. Don't have any other prospects. Not like I want to make a career of guarding tavern doors now do I? Not going to be much fun around here without you." There. She said that, at least. The closest she'd come to admit to having feelings for him.

"What about Kirkwall? You're free to go anywhere, aren't you? Your publisher's there, and remember they did ask if you wanted to be an intern a few months ago."

"That was ages ago. Besides, I didn't have actual motivation to fly the coop, now did I?"

Evan shrugged. "It won't harm to ask."

"And you're going back to Lothering," Donna stated. "What's there for you?"

"Want to see my mother, and then _I'm_ off to Kirkwall. I've heard the tavern circuit's pretty good for those of a musical bent."

Her heart did a small jig of joy, and she managed a slight smile. "So, this is your way of asking for a bodyguard, right?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

"All right then," she said.

Kirkwall. An option.

Yet…

Merrim would be disappointed. All those years training… Yet what harm could there be in a roundabout route? She'd get to see a bit of Thedas while she figured out what it was that she wanted.

"You're such a tit, Evan." Laughing, she mock-punched his shoulder a little bit too hard – by mistake on purpose.

# # #

The plan was that Evan would sweet-talk the guy in charge of the caravan. She'd insisted that she could pay her way, but Evan was in a strange mood, solicitous even, which made her happy yet slightly perturbed as well. She supposed she should feel flattered by his concern, but she couldn't quite shake her disquiet. Why care about her now?

Evan's two trunks had already been loaded onto the wain, and the oilcloth had been tied down, yet he haggled with a hirsute human who kept scratching at an armpit and glaring over Evan's shoulder at Donna, measuring her up and finding her wanting. Caravan owner then. Arsehole.

Donna the caravan guard? Right. It was a good thing Merrim wasn't here to see this. Donna scanned the street but didn't see anyone she knew too well. The sun was well up, and there was a good chance that her flight from home had been discovered, and Donna was anxious to get going.

The caravan owner hawked a gob of phlegm on the ground. "Get 'er to show me. I'm not convinced."

"Donna?" Evan called.

Donna affected a confident swagger, her hands on the pommels of the two throwing knives tucked in her belt.

Up close, the human did not inspire confidence. He was a bear of a man whose tunic didn't quite cover his hairy paunch, which peeked out below the hem and gave her an eyeful. Yuck.

He leered at her. "You just a pretty face then, or can you back up your boyfriend's claims?"

Boyfriend. Sheesh. Donna's face grew warm but she maintained eye contact with the human.

"Sure. Show me a target and I'll stick holes in it."

The target turned out to be a nearby signpost. Conscious of dozens of pairs of eyes trained on her, Donna swallowed back uncharacteristic nerves. Why of all moments was she worried now? Maybe it was because that horrid man _wanted_ her to fail.

Should just have paid him the silver and gotten on with her life. Simpler too. She glowered at Evan, whose mild expression didn't give much away on what his actual state of mind was.

 _He's showing off_ , she realised. And that did make her a bit angry. He'd engaged with the man purely to see whether he'd get his way, and it hadn't been the first time he'd placed wagers on her abilities.

Yet she couldn't let him down. Of course not. Though a small part of her wanted to.

Ten yards. Easy peasy. Donna felt the heft of her favourite blade, closed her eyes and took cognisance of the slight breeze blowing off the lake, of the morning-cool air. The knife existed as an extension of her will. It was not so much throwing the weapon, but pointing it, and somehow connecting it to the post. She had no other way to explain it.

Her vision narrowed to the offending target, to a particular point about a foot from the ground. The hushed voices around her drained away into nothingness. There was just her, her pulse, and the weapon that she was about to unleash. _Breathe in. Out_.

 _Thwack!_

The knife quivered in the wood. People applauded.

 _Next one_.

Without blinking, Donna followed up with two more throws then stepped back to admire her handiwork. A lucky three. As always. She kept her fourth dagger sheathed, hidden in its snug place in her left boot. So far she'd never had to use it.

The caravan owner approached the post and peered at the placement of Donna's daggers. She didn't need to examine them closely to know that they were placed in a near-straight line running down.

Hours of practice on a stump in the backyard at home, but yeah, Donna prided herself on her ability. Her sewing and cooking might be a hot mess, but she could do this one thing. _Apart from making words, that is_.

The man turned his piggish gaze on her then spoke to Evan, who looked as if the smug was oozing out of every pore.

"Fine, she gets to ride along. Report to Gregory for tasks. Get ready. We leave in half an hour."

Evan waited for the human to waddle off then came over to fist bump her as she retrieved her weapons. "Well done."

"Maybe next time check with me before you put me on display like that," Donna murmured as she sheathed her last knife.

"C'mon, you have to admit it felt good showing up that fat slob. And, besides, you scored a free ride."

"There is that," Donna allowed.

Now that it was time for her to go, and her things were safely stowed on a wain, she wasn't certain how she felt about the entire business of leaving. She kept glancing about, worried that she'd see her Aeldric, Ceren or her brothers, but if they were aware of her departure, it evidently hadn't occurred to them to come down to the main road to look for her. It was worse if she imagined that they pretended that she'd simply ceased to exist.

The mules brayed in their traces, men shouted orders, and passengers took their seats. Absolute chaos.

Evan gave her a hand up onto a wain, and they settled on a crate that was nestled between two large, tarp-covered objects. It felt strange to have a vantage point that was higher up. She could see bald patches on top of men's heads.

"Excited to be going?" Evan asked her.

"I feel weird." Which was true. Her stomach seethed as if she'd swallowed a handful of whirligigs.

"How so?"

Donna gave an exasperated sigh. "It's all fine and well for you. You're going _home_. This is all home I've _ever_ known."

"Oh. Right."

"I'm going to miss my family."

"They were all too willing to see you bundled up and shipped out to Orzammar," Evan pointed out.

"I know, but they're still family. My only family. That I know of." The boys. She'd miss them. A lot. For all their annoyance and bother at times.

"Family is overrated," Evan said.

"Yet you're going back to see yours."

"For a while."

"Well, it's a first for me," Donna said. "I'm sure after a few years I'll harden my heart." She bit the inside of her cheek because her eyes were prickling and her chest felt tight. "I didn't even say goodbye to Agatha and any of the others."

Evan gave a short, humourless bark of laughter yet he slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a brief hug, which set her heart thumping at the contact. "Let me tell you about friends, Donna-love. They'll miss you a bit, but then they'll get distracted by their own concerns. Day-to-day living and such. You'll come back here in a few months' or years' time, and they'll all have gotten on with their lives. Agatha may have married the merchant's son and be expecting her first. Gareth may have gone off to Weisshaupt, on some mistaken idea of adventure. To join the legendary Grey Wardens. To be a hero. Later you'll hear that he died in the Deep Roads, with a darkspawn arrow lodged in his throat. You'll never have paid him back the coin you owed him. Arlassio may have finally moved out of his parents' house to starve in a garret in Highever. Some may remember you fondly, but you'll have become a stranger to them. You may eventually even pass them by in the street and they won't recognise you. And not even the 'remember whens' will be enough to cross that divide."

Donna laughed, despite her sadness. "When did you become so…jaded?"

"I didn't always live in Lothering," Evan said. "Before that, my other mother and I travelled around a bit."

"Your _other_ mother?"

He quirked a brow at her, as if she were the one who was odd for having asked the question. "Yes. My _other_ mother."

Donna remained sceptical. "You're strange, Evan Doranden."

"You too, pipsqueak."

"Pipsqueak? Seriously?" She poked him in the ribs so that he grunted.

Just then there was a shout from a few wains ahead, and the crack of a whip.

"We're going," Evan said.

Donna's heart lurched with the wheels of the wain as it overcame its inertia to roll forward. A wild flight of panic had her clutch at the side of the wain and cast about. This was it. This was really happening.

"Not thinking of getting cold feet, are you?" Evan said.

For a moment she was tempted to grab her pack and jump. Except...

 _Orzammar_.

Uncle Ortzen's florid face sprang to mind, contorted in anger and spittle flying as he berated her for her foolhardy attempt at an escape that would disgrace their family. Aeldric would hang back, his expression glum. Ceren would have retreated to the kitchen or the back garden, safe from the man's fury. A woman's place was to be out of sight. She'd have her own sharp words later, and the boys would not meet her gaze for days. It was all too easy to follow this particular outcome should she give in to cowardice.

"No." Donna shook her head for emphasis, even as she bit the inside of her cheek hard to stop her chin from trembling.

Maker's breath, what was she doing?

She had absolutely no idea.


	12. Knives in the Moonlight

Chapter 5

The West Road – towards Lothering, 9:59

"Don't know. Can't quite place 'im, but 'e reminds me of someone," said one of the guards.

"Pretty face. For a lad," said another.

"Of course you'd notice."

"'e'd give a tree a boner."

"Filthy. Hehehe."

The men continued laughing nastily to each other, the sound of their footsteps receding as they continued on their round. Donna lay curled in the tent she shared with Evan. She didn't need it spelled out to her to know who they were talking about, and it made her feel ill. Two days ago – and it may as well have been a thousand years ago – if someone had told her she'd be sharing a tent with Evan, she'd have scoffed at them.

Yet she may as well have been sharing a tent with one of her brothers, and no matter how fond her feelings were for her friend, his snoring was hardly what she'd consider romantic.

He'd gone to take a leak, he'd said, but that had been a good quarter of an hour ago, by her estimation.

 _What if_ …

No, he wouldn't. Surely he wouldn't?

One of their fellow travellers was a merchant, en route to Denerim with his family. With the uncertainties on the West Road, it made sense for folks to band together and help each other out when it came to security.

The merchant had a daughter, a lass with cornflower blue eyes, hair like polished mahogany, and these adorable little dimples whenever she giggled. Melissa had been giggling a lot more since Evan had taken to regaling her with some of his outrageous exploits, all the while seemingly oblivious to the murderous glares her father favoured him with.

Was Evan _that_ monumentally stupid? Donna knew the blighted answer to that question, and she stifled a groan.

"Andraste's tits and arse," Donna muttered and sat up. "Evan, don'tcha make me get up and go haul you out of this mess, may the Maker help me…"

She checked her boots for crawly things then pulled them on. Donna had gone to sleep in her leathers – better safe than sorry – and slipped on her belt and knives. Their encampment was one often used by travellers, and theirs was not the only group overnighting between the venerable oaks. Some folks were still awake, huddled by the embers of cookfires, and not far off someone was strumming a lute. Not Evan, judging by the style of picking.

Besides, he was pointedly _not_ performing during their journey, or so he'd told her. Yet where would he go now? Torn, she debated whether to check if the merchant's daughter was still in her tent or if Evan had been true to his word and gone off to the latrines at the edge of camp.

Latrines first. Ugh. Then to the comely wench. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.

"Donna-love, you _always_ give him the benefit of the doubt," she murmurred to herself in a mocking tone.

Silent as a shadow, Donna slipped between the tents, stepping over guy lines and avoiding one other individual who was clearly headed from a late-night tryst as he was busy lacing up his breeches and tucking in a shirt.

At least she hoped Evan had the sense to go relieve himself in the latrines instead of the bushes. Then she might as well just be wasting her time searching for him. The moons were both bright and near full, so visibility was good, and would help her tracking.

Paranoid much? Was she behaving like an obsessive wannabe girlfriend over his slightly overlong absence? Yet Donna couldn't quite shake the sense that _something_ had gone wrong.

The stench of the latrines hit her nose long before she saw the wattle-and-daub enclosure.

"Evan?" she called softly.

No answer.

Time to head back to the camp yet… _Trust your intuition,_ Merrim had always said. _There are times when reason will blind you to facts that have been staring you in the face all along that may yet save your life. Your senses often give you more information than you can sift through but your instincts will clue you in._

That was it. Despite the incidental noises from the camp – the low murmur of conversation, the clink of pewter tankards and the stifled sounds of a couple clearly being intimate in a tent somewhere to her left and on the perimeter – the actual oak grove was quiet. Too quiet.

It was high summer. By all rights she should be hearing the soft, continuous _tjirrrrr_ of insects. Nothing. Maybe a sleepy trill of a warbler, because there was a boggy spot nearby filled with rushes that she'd noted when they'd been setting up their tents.

Why was she so suspicious, so on edge?

A flash of memory: there'd been two fellows who'd arrived not long after they'd settled. Their complexions were slightly darker than the average Fereldan's. Vints probably. They'd kept to themselves but had set up their tents at a site adjacent to theirs. It'd been the way the pair had paused to watch them – too interested. In Evan.

No one noticed the dwarf. Of course not. At the time she'd written her suspicions off as typical annoyance at the fact that her friend's pretty face turned heads.

 _Stop jumping to conclusions._

Yet Merrim's instructions had been so drilled into her that she couldn't help but cast about, scanning for any signs of disturbance.

There. Drag marks, like a body had been dropped. Undergrowth crushed. The leaf litter disturbed. Donna drew her daggers.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit_.

Not good.

How could she be sure it was Evan who'd been waylaid? Scum that, she just _knew_.

Donna dragged in her breathing slow and steady, despite the ratcheting of her pulse. This was not a practice drill, like all those times Merrim had had Donna stalk her and see how far she could get sneaking up on her. This was the real thing.

 _Evan is in danger_.

Every small brush of leather against underbrush, the soft shift of leaf litter beneath her soles, had Donna pause. It felt as if her ears were about to burst from the straining after every sound. Beneath the trees and between rocky outcroppings it was easy enough to remain hidden, but the same could be said for her quarry.

The soft whicker of a horse to her right alerted her to the fact that she was closer than she'd expected. She froze.

Men spoke in low voices. Tevene. Not that she understood one word in twenty. Donna inched forward, crouched, until screened by a bush, she could peer at the two men who busied themselves with a bundle that they were trying to lift onto the back of a horse.

Donna sucked in a breath, estimated the distance, and leapt out of her hiding place. The nearest man had his back to her and, gifted with the element of surprise, she plunged her first dagger into his back where his kidneys were located. He gasped and dropped like a sack of flour. The second let go of the shoulders of his trussed-up victim in order to draw a wicked blade of his own, and they faced off. The horse, evidently spooked by the commotion and the stench of blood, snorted and jibbed off.

In the low light, Donna was startled to see that the Vint wasn't much older than her, perhaps in his early twenties. His eyes were wide. The way he held his knife suggested it wasn't a weapon he was comfortable using.

"What do you want with my friend?" Donna asked.

"Yaaaarrgh!" the man yelled and slashed at her.

Donna was ready for him and ducked under his wild lunge. He overreached and Donna plunged her dagger up into his belly and twisted – just so, where she knew she'd hit something vital. For a moment they stood in each other's embrace, before he grew heavy, his blood hot on her skin. She withdrew her blade as he fell with a sigh. Almost too easy. But then people regularly made a habit of underestimating her abilities.

Only then did the enormity of her current situation slam into her with the full force of a charging bronto. She'd killed. Two men. Even in the moonlight, her right hand was gloved in blood that appeared nearly black. Nausea welled up in her stomach, made worse by the overwhelming iron tang of blood that saturated the air. Doubled over, Donna vomited up whatever she'd eaten for supper, her right hand pressed to the ground so that she could steady herself and not get more blood on her leathers.

Just when she thought she was done heaving, another spasm smacked into her, and another, until she was retching up painful gulps of air. Bile was bitter and stung her throat, and she ended up coughing.

 _Evan, you blighted fool_.

Her friend lay as they'd dropped him, the first assailant collapsed over his legs. His skin washed out by the moonlight that shone through gaps in the canopy, Evan seemed paler than usual. Drugged, possibly. Using one of the fallen Vints' tunics, Donna wiped the worst of the blood off her hand, blinking back tears – of horror or shock, she couldn't tell, and it didn't matter at this point.

"Evan?" she queried, keeping her voice pitched low.

A soft snore rippled from his mouth.

 _Definitely drugged_.

Donna choked back a ragged laugh.

"Evan?" She tapped his cheek with her fingers. "C'mon. Evan. Wake up, please."

He mumbled a little and turned his head to one side.

"Crap. Evan, we gotta get out of here." She paused and listened to the night. Crickets had begun a hesitant chirping not far away. Even from this distance, she could hear a horse neighing back at the encampment.

Should she leave him, go fetch help? What if there were more Vints about. Slavers? Donna had no other recourse than to let Evan sleep off the worst of the effects of whatever his would-be attackers had administered. She cut through his bonds and turned him onto his side in case he vomited and ended up choking. He grumbled as she positioned him, which was heartening. It meant that whatever he'd been given didn't have long-term effects. She'd try to rouse him again as soon as she'd examined the corpses.

Ugh.

"Can't believe I'm doing this," Donna whispered. Yet she hardened her misgivings, one of Merrim's lessons close to the surface.

 _You can't afford to be soft or emotional on the battlefield. It's kill or be killed, and the more you know about your enemy, the better informed you are to stay alive the next time._

She had to do this. The taller one – and just her dumb luck for killing him first – was well armed. A poniard, three throwing knives and a wicked dagger that would give anyone pause in a fight. She relieved him of those, in addition to a pouch that… All right. Andraste's tits. Three gold pieces. Tevinter coins. Thank you very much. She'd keep those, though she'd have to be circumspect where she changed them. He had no need of that much wealth anymore. A few potions of undetermined purpose looped to his belt in addition to a few small vials of what she could only assume were poisons. Donna discarded those. Better safe than sorry. What she knew about alchemical preparations was sketchy at best.

The younger male had one other dagger that he hadn't drawn. His hands were soft though the nails were bitten to the quick. Nobility? A nervous disposition? Guess she'd never know. The only item of jewellery he wore was a thin silver band on his pinkie finger set with what she took to be bloodstone. Odd. She could probably haggle a fair price for this at a market. His money pouch contained twelve silver pieces of various currency.

Looting corpses, what next? Her lip curled in distaste. Then again, her future was so uncertain she didn't want to pass up the opportunity to support herself. It's not like this pair was going to need their things. Merrim herself had a fair collection of gewgaws she'd obtained over the years, some quite valuable, others more for curiosity's sake.

Neither Vint had any papers or identifying marks, though the older man had a snake-like sigil tattooed on his left wrist. Maybe if she went back to their camp, she'd find more useful clues. No sign of the horse, so there'd be no chance to rifle through its saddle for any other hints to these men's identities.

"Evan?" she queried and turned to her friend again. "You gonna wake up?"

This time she shook his arm hard, and his head flopped about. He groaned.

"C'mon. We gotta get outta here." She shook him some more then pinched the soft skin on the inside of his elbow where she knew it would hurt like mad.

" _Eoowwwwrrrrrrgh_ ," he exclaimed, sat up then immediately started retching.

Aftereffects of whatever drugs they'd given him, no doubt. Donna crouched next to him and held his hair back while he coughed, but he didn't puke, thanks be to the Maker. She'd had about enough of bodily fluids for one night.

"You okay?" she asked, rubbing his back with her left hand, which wasn't smeared with gore.

"What the?"

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I was going to the bog then –" He retched some more.

Once he'd stopped, and was no longer gasping for breath, Donna spoke. "You were gone a bit longer than I expected. Dunno. I just had this weird feeling. Saw those guys in the campsite next to ours just looking at you weird. Something didn't add up so I came to look for you when you were gone too long. Found drag marks on the ground and… Well, when I got here, these two guys were trying to load you onto a horse."

"Maker's breath!" he exclaimed. Evan jerked in fright as he took note of the bodies, which Donna had dragged a short distance away.

"And the stench of blood wasn't a dead giveaway?" she asked him with a wry smile.

"How?"

"Why would Tevenes be after you?" Donna asked.

"They're Tevenes?"

She nodded.

"You killed them? On your own?"

"I'm not harmless, you know." Her statement of her own abilities, now fully realised, caused a tremor to pass through her, and Donna rose to her feet, dizzy. How long would it take for the feeling of hot blood spurting over her skin to go away? The peculiar resistance of fabric, skin and flesh as her blade penetrated? The final gasp? That instant when the shock of death glazed a man's eyes and the spark of life fled…

"I killed them…" Donna covered her face with her hands and staggered back against a tree to stop herself from sinking to her knees. By the time she was sixteen, she'd known more than twenty ways to kill another person. Now, she couldn't count the methods. She just knew. _Do this to disable. Do that to disarm. That will knock someone out. This pressure point will bring them to a standstill… This is how you break a limb. Cut that way, and you sever an artery_ …

At the time, it'd all seemed like theory, a game, especially when she'd sparred with Merrim. Nothing she'd ever have practical application for beyond sorting out a few drunks in a non-lethal fashion.

"What have I done?" she wailed.

Dimly, Donna was aware of Evan staggering to his feet. She wanted to tell him to sit down, to get his strength back. Instead she allowed him to put his arms around her.

"You saved my life, Donna-love. That's what you've done."


	13. Sunlight, Reflections

Chapter 6

9:59

They left the bodies where they'd dumped them.

"Let the vermin chew their bones," Evan said. "They don't deserve proper burial."

Donna regarded the corpses dubiously. He was right, yet she'd also heard too many stories about the dead returning to life. Surely not here… However they didn't have the wherewithal to gather wood for a pyre nor pile up heaps of stones. As it was, Evan leaned drunkenly against a tree trunk, his skin pale in the moonlight.

"You all right to walk?" Donna asked him.

He nodded. "Let's take it slow. Could do with some brandy when we get back."

"So could I."

His expression grew fierce. "I know I'm a sod at times, Donna, but I just want to thank you."

Her heart constricted painfully, and she reached out to pat his arm. "It's okay. I… I care about you deeply. If anything bad were to happen…" She was grateful for the relative darkness that hid the flush she felt in her cheeks.

Evan inclined his head, glanced away. "All right. Let's get away from these two."

"Pity about the horse getting away."

"Can't be helped." He hobbled along.

Donna walked slowly, and whenever Evan stumbled, she was there to help steady him. They walked in silence, pausing often. Evan's breathing was laboured, his skin clammy. Donna didn't need to ask him to know that he was most likely still nauseous and dizzy.

When they reached the perimeter of the camp, they stopped by the animals' watering point so that Donna could sluice the worst of the blood off her skin. Evan sank down to his haunches, and rested his head on his knees while Donna scrubbed as best she could.

"'ad a bit too much to drink, you two?" a passing guard chirped.

His companion snickered and said something Donna was glad she didn't quite catch.

Evan mumbled an incoherent reply and the man waved him off as he continued on his round. Donna was just glad she'd washed off the worst, though she was certain she'd find spots she missed once it was light.

"We need to take a look at their camping spot," Donna said quietly.

"We'll probably not find anything," Evan responded.

Donna suppressed her annoyance at Evan's fatalism, and when she'd collected herself enough to speak, she did so that only Evan could hear her. "Evan, some idiots tried to kidnap you. Not someone else. _You_. If they were just slavers, don'tcha think they'd have been happy with just about anyone? There are clearly easier people to nab."

His only response was a deep sigh, and to huddle even more miserably. Damn him. Donna wasn't even sure what to do. For certainty, she wasn't going to go report this incident to the caravan owner. There was no telling how he'd react, and she had no desire to be handed over to the local arl or worse, end up with her throat slit in a ditch somewhere to save the caravan owner the trouble for having to explain to any authority figures.

None of this changed the fact that she had blood on her hands no amount of scrubbing would remove. Also, it was far too late for her to back out of her chosen path. Sooner or later, she would've ended up taking a life. Only she hadn't banked on _sooner_ being, well…so blighted soon.

But on top of that, another thought niggled. "Is there something you're _not_ telling me?" she asked Evan. "Has it got to do with why you've suddenly had to leave Redcliffe?"

He shook his head but didn't meet her gaze, which was telling enough.

"Evan," she warned. "I need to know what's going on. We can't be keeping secrets from each other."

He straightened with a hiss. "I can't tell you everything. Not now. Not here."

Donna clenched her fists. It was better than giving in to her other impulse, which involved closing the distance between her and her sodding companion then throttling him until he turned blue in the face.

"Let's go investigate the campsite, all right? Then get some sleep. You feeling better?"

"A bit."

She helped him up then steadied him when he swayed alarmingly.

"What did they give you?"

"A tincture of ratwort would do this," he mumbled. "Probably spiked with magister's purse, judging by the foul taste in my mouth."

"How come you know so much about herbs and shit?"

Evan just looked at her, shook his head slightly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Later," he croaked.

They had to stop twice so he could vomit, and Donna worried even more that he'd get worse. Damn those Vints.

In the end, she settled him in their tent, his head facing toward the opening so he could puke outside if need be.

"If you hurl all over our blankets I _will_ kill you," she told him.

Evan merely groaned and buried himself deeper in the bedding.

As expected, the Vints' campsite was empty of all save their boot prints, with not even a bone or a scrap of lint to be found. Why go to the elaborate show then? Wouldn't it have been easier for them to just hang on the outskirts? Yet that way they would've risked being spotted for lurkers. Better to pretend to respectability posing as harmless fellow travellers. This only served to make Donna more ill at ease.

"Damn you, Evan," she muttered. There would be no sleep for what remained of the night, even if she wanted to.

Mercifully, the rest of their trip proved uneventful, for which Donna was grateful. Their road wound through hill and dale, snaked through fields where the first harvest was being gathered, and plunged them through cool forests where cuckoos called from the tops of venerable oaks. How could she explain to Evan that whenever she closed her eyes, she kept replaying those scenes where blood spilled, where she killed and killed again?

This was something Merrim had never explained to her, though in hindsight, Merrim's eye had taken on a particular flinty gleam from time to time when she shared her war stories. Yet it was one thing to hear tales of derring-do. It was quite another to have taken an active hand in wholesale slaughter.

She and Evan did not speak again of what happened that night. Whether it was due to mutual, unvoiced agreement or simply because they lacked privacy, Donna couldn't tell. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she didn't _want_ to discuss the incident. At least not until she'd put a little distance between herself and the visceral nature of her memories.

"Tell me about Lothering," Donna said. Their journey seemed as if it would never end, and she was growing tired of listening to the wain's wheels crunch along the road. She'd already counted all the crows she could handle, and though she itched to jot down her thoughts, their ride was too full of jolts and bumps for her to risk spilling ink.

Evan closed the book he'd been reading. His smile was faint. "What's to tell? It's a cow town with a farmer's market."

"Why would your mother stay there?"

"She doesn't stay _in_ Lothering, as such. More like a cottage on a dairy farm a few miles out. Privacy. You'll like Lana. She's a herbalist. Aunt Beren too. She does all the tinctures and distilling. Danil and Janik will be ten this year, I think. They're twins and they're a handful. Lana and Beren are twin sisters. It kinda runs in the family, I guess."

Donna couldn't help but wonder whether Evan had inadvertently spawned a few twins of his own, but she kept those thoughts to herself. There were potions for that sort of problem.

"How long are we going to stay then? Before we head out to –"

"To Val Royeaux." Evan looked at her meaningfully.

"Okay…" She got it.

"We'll see. Want to spend a bit of quality time with my family. Maybe a week or two? Hook up with old friends."

"Guess that will give me a chance to write home," Donna said with a sigh.

"You sure you want to do that yet?"

"I have to explain. A little." The old ache returned. Would the feeling ever go away? "Plus, I guess I'll be writing a letter to my publisher. She'll be overjoyed to hear that I'm…" Donna glanced about, realising anew that she need to watch her words. "That I'll be devoting more time to my writing."

Evan's expression became wistful. "It will all work out, you'll see."

"You seem so damned sure about things."

"It pays to be optimistic, Donna-love."

"It's not that easy for me. You're… You're used to travelling about, being uprooted. I'm… The only life I've known has been in Redcliffe."

"You're what, nearly twenty, right? What would you have done in a year or two? What did you dream?"

Donna spread her hands. "I – I don't know. I guess I thought I had my writing. Those short stories that I had published in those collections. My books."

"Which you hadn't told your family about. Why was that?"

"They wouldn't understand." Donna hung her head and fiddled with the silver ring she wore on her left index finger. A ring Aeldric had made that he and Ceren had given her for her eighteenth name-day.

"How do you know? Did you ever tell them?" he asked.

Donna glared at him. "Are you daft? They were about to ship me off to Orzammar."

"I know, but maybe it's also partially out of the fear for your future."

"That has got to be the most stupid, bull-headed thing I've ever heard you say," Donna spat.

"Just trying to see it from their perspective too."

It was impossible for her to remain angry with him, and she hated it. Donna rather gazed out at the slowly changing landscape. They were passing another tumbledown ruin of what would have once been a bustling little cottage before the last Blight. The plaster had been washed away to expose the packed stone, which was festooned with ivy and caulked with verdant moss – further signs that the land was still recovering from the most recent incursion of darkspawn.

"I sometimes wonder whether the stories I write about will remain just that for me," Donna said. "And I suspect that perhaps I was holding out for something to happen but I was always too afraid to let go." She turned to him. "It's like learning to swim."

Evan's eyes crinkled up as he smiled at her. "Really?"

"Yes. You spend most of your time in the shallows, where you can see the bottom and your feet are always connected with the ground. You know where you're going to step next and walk around submerged objects. Perhaps an old broken bottle that might cut your foot or even see a coin someone lost. Basically, life is predictable. Ordinary.

"But then you see a few people who're out swimming where the lake's gotten deeper. They dive down for a long time and get fully submerged. And sometimes they bring up treasures like old helms lost during ancient battles or flasks filled with perfumed oils that some merchant lost. And you know that could've been you if only you dared to go beyond the shallows."

"You know, you should write more," Evan said.

Donna's face warmed at his words. "You always know just what to say, don'tcha?"

He shrugged. "It's my charm. I'm simply oozing it."

"But it still doesn't change that I don't know what _I_ want. My… My real father." Her pulse sped up. She'd never told _anyone_ who her real father was. "I've never met him but...I've read of his exploits. He's always been in the thick of things. The stories are so unreal, and I feel that unless I've had some experiences myself, I can't really say that I'm basing my writing on anything other than second-hand information."

"Hang on a minute, you mean Aeldric isn't…"

Donna shot him what she hoped was an incredulous expression. "Um, like you haven't noticed I look _nothing_ like my brothers."

"I hadn't noticed."

She huffed out a breath. "No. Of course you didn't."

"So, who's your real father then? Someone infamous? This is juicy gossip." He leaned a little closer.

Donna pulled away slightly, her dismay and trepidation at how a potential reveal might affect her relationship with Evan making her reluctant to elaborate. "Forget I mentioned it."

"Donna-love."

She shook her head. "Leave it, Evan. It's not all that important. And it's just going to make me sound like some idiot girl who likes to make up stories because her own life is so uneventful." Because at the end of the day, that was all she really was. A small-town girl whose own father didn't even know she existed, and who hadn't been happy with the family she'd had. Who was Donna Kovash anyway?

Evan placed his hand on hers, and her skin warmed at the contact. "Hey. Talk to me."

She wished he wouldn't touch her yet she craved every morsel of his affection, and it galled her that she felt this way. Donna withdrew her hand, and picked at a hangnail instead. The pain from tugging at the skin grounded her.

"Here I am, getting all pensive. It's nothing, really. I guess I'm just tired from...the other night when…" _I killed two men and left their bodies to rot in the woods. Go, Donna._

His gaze grew shadowed, and the slight nod he offered in return suggested that he understood the matter was closed.

After this, Evan was his usual charming self, chatting to their driver, sometimes getting off and going to visit some of the other travellers. She envied the ease with which he'd made friends during this journey.

It was easy to see why Lothering had come about. Situated at the meeting place of the Imperial Highway and the West Road, it sprawled alongside the banks of the lazy Drakon that eventually wended its way toward Lake Calenhad.

Late afternoon, about a mile or so outside of the town at a crossroads, the caravan stopped so that they could unload their things.

"Is no one here to fetch you?" Donna eyed the two trunks that contained Evan's possessions.

" _Pfff_ , it's just down the ways there." He pointed north. Their proposed route was a rutted wagon track that curled downhill, went over a half-ruined bridge then vanished behind a screen of poplars.

"How far 'down the ways' there?"

"Just around the corner. Come on." He piled one trunk on top of the other and moved to lift one end.

"Now I know why you invited me along," Donna said as she hefted her side. "Just ask the dwarf to help play porter. She'll do it for free too, just because you have a pretty face."

Twenty paces on, and they were both puffing for breath, and her fingers burned.

"Evan, I'm going to beat you with your own arm," Donna said. "That's if I don't jerk my own out of their sockets. What have you got in these trunks?"

"Books and stuff. Clothing." He laughed at the glare she cast in his direction.

"I've got a brilliant idea," Donna said. "Why don't you go _fetch_ help? I'll wait here with your stuff."

"Oh, er…"

"It didn't occur to you, did it?"

He shook his head.

"Go on then, I'll be fine. And don't dawdle." Damn, she sounded like her mother.

"You sure?"

" _Yesss_."

Donna almost regretted her offer because Evan did take longer than she'd hoped he would. Enough that staring at the brown-and-white cows in the field next to her lost their appeal, and watching swallows skim over a muddy puddle in one of the road's ruts no longer interested her.

Evan approached with two women, as tow-headed as he was, their arms interlinked while they talked and laughed. Even at a distance, the familial relationship was clear.

Except for one salient fact she had not expected. Evan's mother and his aunt were both elves. Now that was a surprise. Or maybe not. Trust Evan to keep details from her.

Donna dropped from her perch atop the trunks, and schooled her expression to be as friendly as possible. Knowing Evan, he'd probably neglected to tell his family that she was dwarven. Go figure. And just maybe, details like this weren't all that important in the bigger scheme of things, but now she found herself burning with curiosity to know more about Evan's father. And who the hell was his _other_ mother? This entire situation screamed epic story stuff to her inner author.

How did _The Elf-blooded Prince_ sound for a title?


	14. Letters Home, Unsent

Chapter 7

9:59

The sisters lived in a fairy tale cottage, or that's how Donna would have described it in one of her stories. How Evan could want to live anywhere else she couldn't fathom. The fieldstone walls were chinked with a velvet furring of moss, and honeysuckle trailed lazily over the front porch trellis. Spread in neatly demarcated beds all around the dwelling were the herb plantings, and the big field to the west was a purple haze of lavender where bees bumped drunkenly against the blooms. Willows behind the home trailed their branches into a slow-moving river that had spilled into a pool where half a dozen geese sailed without a care.

"It _is_ pretty," Evan's aunt Beren said, adjusting her honey-blond braid. They'd paused to catch their breaths while Evan and his mother continued lugging the other trunk indoors.

"It belongs in a story or in a painting," Donna said.

"We've been here ten years, and it still catches me by surprise. Especially on days like this."

"I'd never leave," Donna said.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need to. Any friend of Evan's is a friend of ours."

Donna's heart gave an unexpected lurch at Beren's sincerity.

"Thank you. That is...unexpectedly kind of you, but we won't stay long, I don't think."

"Oh, that lad. He has itchy feet, I know. Wish we could have him here under better circumstances…" Beren gazed out across the lavender field, her expression thoughtful while she massaged her hand.

"How so?" Donna asked. "Evan didn't say much about why he wanted to pack up so soon."

Beren shook her head, glanced at Donna. "Let's not spoil today, shall we? And let's get my errant nephew's things into the house before nightfall. There's time aplenty for more serious discussions once we've all settled."

And with that, Beren gently and firmly shut her out of discussing anything unpleasant.

The cottage's interior was cool and pleasantly dim after the brightness out of doors, and smelled of beeswax and an ever-present freshness of the dried herbs that hung in bunches from the rafters.

A large pine table dominated the spacious kitchen, and it was here that Donna was seated while the two elven women fussed over her and Evan.

"Where are the boys?" Evan asked.

"They're out over at the manor house helping Heron break in a colt," Beren said.

"You've been amiss," Lana said, cutting a glance from Evan to Donna. "You could have warned us that you were bringing a friend with you."

"Evan coloured slightly under his mother's scrutiny. "I'm sorry. Her accompanying me was…unexpected."

Lana faced Donna. "But you are welcome Donna. We'll just have to rearrange the bed situation." Her smile grew wicked. "I think Evan can sleep in the loft, no? Then you can have the guest room."

"There are spiders up there, Mother!" Evan said.

"Not if you dust it properly," she responded, her eyes merry. "And not a half-arsed job like you'd normally try get away with. Serves you right if you wake with a wolf spider in your boots or breeches."

Thus was her introduction to the Doranden household. The elven women took her in, and within a day Donna no longer felt like a stray waif. They relished teasing Evan at every opportunity, and Donna couldn't help but join in; seeing him momentarily at a loss for words was gold to her. The twin boys – Danyl and Janik – bore the stamp of their elven heritage in their fine bones and delicate features, but they were as human as Evan. Donna itched to ask more about their absent fathers, but held herself back.

There would be time later, she was certain. Or so she hoped. In the meanwhile, she allowed herself to believe this existence could continue indefinitely, for it was far too idyllic. But then again, considering the horror she'd gone through on the road from Redcliffe…

"Are you even going to tell them what happened to you en route here?" Donna asked Evan that first evening, when they had a quiet moment.

Evan looked at her blankly then said, "Oh, right."

Donna itched to slap him. How could he have put the incident at the back of mind already? "If you don't, I will."

"No. Don't." His expression grew tight with worry. "Promise me you won't. Please." He reached out and gripped her shoulder.

"Evan…"

"I will tell them. Just not yet. I don't want to trouble them. We've only just arrived. I'll find the right moment. You have my word."

Despite her bitter misgivings, Donna relented.

"You aren't the one with blood on your hands, Evan," she'd mumbled, half to herself.

If Evan heard, he gave no sign.

Each morning, they'd rise. Goats needed to be milked, wood had to be chopped, chickens fed, herb beds weeded. It amazed her that Evan fell into this routine without complaint. Danyl and Janik were every bit as charming as their older nephew, and were even more impressed with Donna when they discovered her proficiency with knives. With Beren's permission, she took to teaching them the basics, under their mother's watchful eye.

"You're bigger than the Hero of Ferelden to them now," said Evan with a wink. "I'll have to start composing ballads about the dashing dwarven lass who rescued half the world from the terrors of an old log that was plotting world domination."

Donna did find the time to write the two letters that had been preying on her mind. To Merrim, she wrote:

 _Dear Merrim_

 _A short note to let you know that I am well, and I'm accompanying Evan on his travels. It would appear that my presence has already been of great necessity, as we were set upon by what I can only assume to be Tevene slavers not far outside of Redcliffe. It is only through sheer dint of the training that you gave me that we were able to overcome these vile men. I feel I am honour bound to continue with Evan to ensure that he reaches his ultimate destination safely. I shall consider my next move from there. Please understand that I am grateful for everything that you have done for me so far, but my path has taken an unexpected turn. I will write soon. Your kindness has not been forgotten, and I hope to push through to Skyhold soon._

 _All my love_

 _Donna_

There was so much more that she'd wanted to say, but couldn't, and she felt like a traitor for not having followed Merrim's advice in the first place. Her guilt kicked hard. _You're always trying to please people, Donna. When are you going to do something for yourself?_

But if she looked at her predicament, she wasn't even certain what she wanted for herself, save for some nebulous need to seek out her real father, to close that chapter of her life. Surely Ceren had _told_ him that she had been expecting Donna? If not, was it because Ceren had been certain he wouldn't be interested in knowing? Or the complications that would have entailed? What if he rejected her? Denied even the possibility that he'd known her mother?

 _Dear Ceren_

 _I understand if you do not wish to have any contact with me after what I've done, but I felt it necessary to let you know that I am well…_

No. That didn't work. Donna crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it into the hearth, where the embers glowed until hesitant tongues of flame licked at the edges and turned the paper black. The resident tabby cat looked up from her spot near the heart, and blinked gooseberry green eyes at Donna before resuming her nap. How did one write a letter to one's mother to justify running away from home to escape an arranged marriage? Ceren hadn't exactly protested much when Ortzen had wanted to ship her off, had she?

Donna's anger bloomed and she had to press the heels of her palms into her eye sockets to stop the tears from forming. Her mother's words from the evening where she ran away from home played out in her mind again.

" _Don't make me rue the day I admitted my folly to you," her mother bit out. "You are fortunate you even have a man you can look up to as a father, who provides a roof over your head and who, despite your best interests, pays out all the rope with which you've done your level best to hang yourself with up until now. You're a grown woman. It's time that you face the fact that you have responsibilities. This… this fantasy of yours to be some ne'er-do-well who lurks in taverns with drunks and lechers like your useless father. It must come to an end."_

"What's wrong?" Beren stood in the doorway leading from the passageway.

"Nothing I can really talk about to anyone for fear of dumping a huge pile of angst on them," Donna replied.

"Has this got to do with Evan?" Her expression was unaccountably severe. "I know he has a habit of breaking hearts."

 _Wow. What an understatement._ Donna bit her lip, shook her head. "No, it's not that. He's been...uncommonly kind to me throughout this entire development."

For a moment, she itched to spill the other parts of their story Evan _still_ hadn't shared, about that night with its knives and shed blood, but she bit the inside of her cheek. She had to trust Evan on that matter. After all, this was _his_ family home, while she was only the guest here. They had more than a week before they'd leave for Kirkwall. There was still plenty of time for him to have this discussion with his family. And then there was whatever unpleasantness Lana had intimated at on the day of Donna's arrival that she still wasn't certain had been discussed with him. Damn these people. The only ones who weren't full of secrets – yet – were the two young nephews.

Even now, she considered whether it was even worth troubling Lana and Beren with this darkness of her past. Their lives were so perfect here. Secrets or no.

"You're troubled, lady. Are you sure there's not something I can do to offer you heart's ease?" Beren sat down next to her at the table, and placed a warm hand over Donna's. The gesture undid her, and the tears she'd been holding back for days rolled down her cheeks.

"I… I left home. Not because of Evan, yet the fact that he _was_ going away was convenient at the time. My uncle – my step-father's brother, to be exact – has...connections he sought to please by marrying me off to some noble fart in need of a wife since it's quite clear the women in my family are quite –" Here Donna laughed. "Fertile."

"Oh," said Beren. "That's –"

"Barbaric, hidebound," Donna supplied. "So, I upped and absconded. I didn't even leave them a note. And now I'm debating whether to write to my mother to at least explain to her why I left and that I'm fine, but there's part of me that doesn't even know whether she deserves the explanation. I'm so… I'm still so _angry_. And I feel betrayed."

"It's natural to feel those things. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"But I feel I owe it to them to let them know I'm all right!" Donna wailed.

Beren's expression turned thoughtful, and she tapped a finger against her lip. "You are correct in that you should send some word at some point, but you're not quite in the right frame of mind just yet. Give it a little time. And…" She exhaled. "I can send word on your behalf, once you and Evan have gone on to Kirkwall. If you like. I think it would matter to your mother just to know that you are well."

Donna was stunned. "You'd do that?"

Beren leaned closer and spoke softly. "I'll let you into a little secret. Lana did _precisely_ what you did a few years ago. She met...someone… Who travelled, a lot. We all thought her infatuation with the woman was ill considered, that nothing good would come of it. We did our best to change her mind, but she would have nothing of it and left without word after a particularly nasty row. She was gone for ten years. Ten whole, long years in which we thought she was dead." Sorrow darkened Beren's expression, and her eyes shone with sudden tears.

"If you have any idea what it must feel like to have half of you ripped away, with no word. Nothing. Not a _single_ word. All because of a stupid disagreement and people going to bed angry and with matters unresolved."

"Now you're making _me_ feel guilty," Donna said.

"Hear me out." Beren held up a hand. "I'm not saying you need to rush off back to their arms at all. Your life is important. Live it the way you want to. Back then we were to blame too because we refused to see that Lana did in fact love that woman very much, even if we didn't agree and we felt the relationship was not a good idea. And even though things did not work out between the two of them, it would have gone better for everyone if Lana had known she could come home sooner. If someone, _anyone_ had sent word, it would have laid our hearts to rest. Will you at least allow me to do that much for you?"

"They don't deserve anything from me," Donna said, considering how Aeldric had seemed perfectly willing to go with what his older brother had suggested, and how Ceren, in her own, misguided way must have felt their scheme had merit. But then she thought about her brothers. Yes, they were annoying at times, but she _did_ love them. And they loved her too. Overwhelmingly so. It hurt like a stampeding bronto that she hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to them or had been able to explain why she'd left.

"Is there any way that we can send word to _just_ my brothers?" Donna said. "I'm scared my mother won't pass on the news to them."

"Do you have someone there that you trust that's not family?"

Donna nodded. Merrim. Of course. She could add an addendum to her letter. Merrim would be nothing if not discreet. She cracked a slight smile, because Ceren thought Merrim was a bad influence on her, and the latter would possibly have a few choice things to say to her mother about how young women should be allowed to make their own choices in life.

"Then it's easy. Write to them then. But do it. I know you're angry, and you've got a lot of unresolved emotions, but if you look back in a few years' time you'll see the wisdom in my suggestion."

"You have a point." Donna sighed. "This is all just a big mess right now."

"And if you'd stayed?"

Donna shrugged. "I could've still gone on to Skyhold and seen about joining the Inquisition. I have a letter of recommendation."

"Why didn't you?"

Ah. Here was the rub. She'd had no real reason for accompanying Evan other than at his behest. Her face grew warm.

Beren's expression grew knowing. "You're not…" She glanced at Donna's belly.

"No!" Donna protested. "Not at all!" Andraste's tits, this was so embarrassing. "He's…" She spoke quietly. "He's always said I was like the sister he never had…"

"Oh, you poor thing." Beren's words were laced with so much sympathy, Donna was on the verge of tearing up again. "I could kick his arse for him. Really."

"It's all right." It wasn't really, but she'd learned to cope. _Was_ learning to cope. Whatever. "I kinda need all the friends I can get at this point. Evan's better than nothing." The mere thought of how close she'd gotten to losing him to those Vint bastards made her clench her hands. He was a shit, often, but he was _her_ shit of a friend. She frowned. Had he told his family yet what had happened? Probably not. She itched to speak out, but bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself.

"Yet _your_ plans?"

"I don't really know what I want," Donna supplied. "I'm figuring it out while I'm going, and there's…someone in Kirkwall I'd like to meet. If he's there."

"Oh?"

"My father." Those two words, spoken aloud, filled her with more resolve. Varric Tethras had no idea what lay in wait for him soon. She wanted to at least buy him a pint in The Hanged Man and gain his measure, even if she never dropped _this_ particular jar of bees on his head. The thought made her smile. As for the rest, she'd figure things out along the way. She had her whole life to do that, right?

#

 **Author note:** I felt I needed to turn over Donna's complex emotions about running away from home out. It's never easy leaving behind everything that's familiar to you, even if it means hanging out with people who don't always have your best interests at heart.


	15. Between The Drunk Mabari and the Refuge

Chapter 8

9:59

The interior of The Drunk Mabari was redolent of the familiar hopsy scent Donna had grown to miss since she'd been on the road. The tavern was also twice the size of the Velvet Slipper back in Redcliffe, and Donna lurked at the edge of the common room, where she wedged herself into a spot at a table so she could keep the wall at her back. Dwarves, humans and elves, and even a qunari woman with steel-capped horns, all contributed to the roar of conversation that seemed too loud, even compared to a few of the Slipper's wildest nights.

Donna hadn't been in the mood to go out this evening, but they'd be leaving Lothering in two days' time, and Evan had wanted to spend one night with his old friends. Predictably, "a few pints with friends" had turned into "Evan embarks on a play-off with the resident bard", and here Donna was, scanning the crowd and feeling unaccountably disquieted despite the general celebratory mood in the tavern.

Evan was all smiles up front on the low stage, chatting to the older woman whose name she hadn't caught. The bard had close-cropped, silver hair and was dressed in an unadorned forest green tunic. Though her lute was plain and Orlesian made, Donna had a sneaking suspicion it was of a better make than the ornate instrument Evan favoured.

Evan was predictably dashing in a burgundy velvet doublet over a loose shirt and hose, his ready smile drawing admiring glances from many a lass, and more than a few lads too. Since they'd arrived, he'd chatted to this one and that, and hadn't even noticed when Donna slipped away to find her spot. It almost felt like times in the Slipper. _What, do think it's going to change? Ever? Kirkwall's a big city, Donna-love._

Familiar, bitter disappointment tainted her lips as she sipped her half-pint of ale. Tomorrow morning, it'd be Donna-love making Evan a cup of tea while he bemoaned having drunk so much the night before. That's _if_ he came back home at all, judging by the way the females were hovering at the edge of the stage like hyenas around a gurn carcass. Donna stifled a snort. Evan was _hardly_ a gurn carcass, but the imagery still struck her as absurdly amusing. Granted, she had to find _some_ amusement this evening.

Next to her, two goodwives were having a loud conversation about things their neighbour got up to with his string of mistresses. Donna listened with half an ear; it wasn't as if she had a choice in the matter, anyway. A game of dominoes on her other side was getting out of hand, the three lads slamming their pieces on the table so loudly she felt like asking them whether they thought they were in a forge.

Humans. Gah.

Donna amused herself by making up back-stories about the other patrons. The taciturn fellow who sat somewhat on his own at a table opposite hers was in reality a highwayman whose horse had bolted, stranding him here in Lothering. The scruffy, scarecrow-thin lad next to him was a bounty hunter out of Val Royeaux, slumming it, hunting for the highwayman, except he had no idea he was sitting right next to him…

Donna's eyes glazed over slightly as she contrived a comedy of errors that would happen, should a brawl occur, and the two inadvertently save each other's lives, only to discover –

The strumming of a lute threaded its way between the ruckus, but it was only when the bard woman started singing, that the hum of conversation died back somewhat.

Oh, Evan had his work cut out for him this evening. The bard lady was good. As in really good. As in Maker's arse, what was she doing rotting in Lothering when she should be playing in Val Royeaux?

From where Donna sat, she could just see Evan, at the table next to the low stage. The way he clutched his lute to his chest suggested he was having second thoughts about the contest.

 _Good_. Donna allowed herself a little smirk. Tonight would be interesting.

The bard sang an elegy Donna reckoned had been written during the third Blight. Her knowledge of poetry from that time was sketchy at best, but she recognised the names of the heroes and the syntax was pretty archaic, and indicative of styles from that era. She was still immersing herself in the music when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She started and turned, to find a young dwarven man peering down at her.

"Mind if I take a seat?" he asked.

There really wasn't much space between her and the goodwife to her right, but the rest of the tavern was already stuffed to the eaves, so she couldn't begrudge the guy.

"Sure." She shifted up to her left as much as she could and he squeezed in.

"Fiann Drazek," he said, and extended a hand. "Traveller, treasure hunter, and maker of gadgets, baubles and trinkets – at your service."

For a moment, Donna considered giving him the figurative cold shoulder, but something in the dwarf's open features and the wicked humour in his hazel eyes made her relent. His grip was firm.

"Donna Kovash." What else _could_ she say?

"Are you by any chance related to Aeldric Kovash the silversmith out near Redcliffe?" he asked.

Donna pulled her hand out of his grasp. Should she lie? She could curse herself for having given her full name. And now she'd hesitated too long.

Fiann's expression turned to one of concern.

Damn.

"Will it help if I say kind of?" she offered, cringing.

He tilted his head. "How so?"

"He's my adopted father, if that makes any sense."

"I was just going to say… I've met your...uncle…Ortzen...a few times. There's no family resemblance."

 _Oh Maker's bollocks._ Donna rose. "I've gotta go." Fiann must be some thug her uncle had sent to fetch her back.

"Have I said something –"

Donna didn't give him a chance to finish; she melted between the press of bodies, intent only on one objective: to get out of the bloody tavern before things turned unpleasant. Which was a pity, because she'd really been looking forward to listening to her Evan's performance.

She shoved out the door and breathed deeply of the night air. The streets were still busy. Across the way stood The New Dane's Refuge which, judging by the number of people thronging outside the entrance, was just as busy as The Drunk Mabari.

There was nothing for it; Donna would walk back to the farmstead then return to the Mabari later, when things were quieter. She had a feeling Evan would still be there by the time she came back.

 _In time for me to hold his hair out of his face so he can puke into the gutter without making a mess of himself_.

Donna shoved her hands in her pockets, and began trudging up the main road. Pity about Fiann being a thug. Unlike many of the male dwarves she'd met, he was clean-shaven – a definite plus, so far as she was concerned. Dark hair worn long and brushing his shoulder in easy waves – a dwarf aware of his looks, and with a certain roguish humour about him too, if his introduction was anything to go by. Definitely not kalnas. Then again, why should she even care? _Traveller, treasure hunter, and maker of gadgets, baubles and trinkets at your service_. How much was Ortzen paying Fiann to drag her off to Orzammar?

Surely he couldn't be all bad? Donna smiled, despite her bleak state of mind.

"Hey! Wait! Did I say something wrong?" Fiann called behind her. "I'm not going to let you go off like that unless I have a chance to apologise."

Donna halted, shoulders hunched. Her throwing daggers were reassuringly concealed about her person, and she felt surreptitiously with her right hand at the dagger she could cross draw from the left. To the casual observer, it would appear that Donna had folded her arms over her abdomen. She waited.

Fiann stumbled to a halt before her, out of breath. "I'm sorry, whatever I said or did!"

"How much is he paying you to drag me off to Orzammar?" Donna bit out, hating how waspish she sounded.

"What? I have no idea what you're talking about." If he was lying, he was a blighted fine card player.

"Ortzen Kovash paid you to retrieve me. That's what I'm getting at."

Fiann held up his hands in a placatory gesture, and took a step back. "Listen, lady, I've spoken to your relative once, maybe twice. Stupid shit like 'How's the weather?' or 'The price of silverite is really cruddy right now, innit?' Lost a hand of diamondback to him in Kirkwall a year or so ago. I still owe him some money. That's the extent of it. I swear on my mother's left lung, may she rot in pieces."

Donna couldn't help but laugh. "Your mother's left lung?"

He nodded, beamed. "Yeah, it's a real icebreaker with the ladies."

She huffed out a breath and straightened. "For sure." She wasn't convinced, but she figured she could handle him if he became problematic.

"You going to let me buy you a drink?" he offered. "I've kinda had to abandon my pint back in the Mabari. Could use a fresh 'un. At least allow me to make up for upsetting you. Please?"

Donna cast a glance back at the tavern and shuddered. The mere thought of forcing her way back to the table – or _any_ table, because her spot would almost certainly have been nabbed by someone else – was not high up on her "to do" list, Evan or no Evan.

"Nah." She shook her head. "It's too busy in there."

Fiann's smile faded somewhat. "That's a pity. How about the Refuge? There's an outside section at the back. Won't be so busy."

"You don't give up, do you?" Donna laughed. "It damned well looks freaking busy from the outside."

"Tell you what, humour me. Just come take a look. If you don't like it, I won't bother you again. Ever. Promise." He placed his hand on his chest, his impish smile returned.

"So, you expect me to follow a strange dwarf into a quiet, semi-secluded spot at night?" Donna couldn't help the twitching at the corners of her lips. Any other male this persistent, she'd have employed her unique brand of dissuasion. Yet he _was_ so damned charming.

"I have no doubts that you're able to defend your honour, fair maiden," he responded. "I've counted three knives hidden on your person. I'll bet my mother's right lung that there's a fourth somewhere snug, tight and out of sight. Also, you have a fighter's stance. I wouldn't stand the chance of a nug in a wyvern's nest if you decided to put me in my place."

"So you say." Donna was oh so tempted to just leave him and walk back to the farmstead, but that meant he'd see in which direction she'd gone. Presumptuous male. Yet he'd piqued her interest. She'd forever kick herself if she didn't see where this was going. Even though she was leaving shortly. _It's your turn to break a few hearts, Donna-love_.

"Pretty please. I'll even go down on my knees and beg, fair dwarven lass."

While she was tempted to see if he'd follow through with his threat to grovel, his dimples undid her.

"Oh, fine. Lead on."

The New Dane's Refuge, apparently rebuilt on the foundations of the old, had, as Fiann had promised, an outside area beneath trellised vines where trestle tables had been set up. Though the interior of the tavern sounded as if a dozen caravan teams were simultaneously competing in drinking games, amid raucous shouts and much whooping and stomping of feet, the outside section wasn't as heavily populated. Even better, the clientele seemed to be of the sort who _didn't_ look the sort to start throwing furniture or punches; in fact, they appeared exactly the sort of people who'd gone out of their way to avoid this sort of inconvenience completely. Perfect.

Small blue and red lanterns flickered on tables covered in chequered tablecloths, giving the area an almost festive air, and Donna was reassured by the presence of several groups, both human and dwarven, who were clearly enjoying their pints. No sooner had she and Fiann found their seats at one of the tables furthest from the tavern, than a serving woman came out to take their drinks order.

"Entirely civilised, you see?" Fiann said once the elf had gone back inside.

"All right, you're forgiven," Donna replied. "Now that you've led me astray, what do you propose to do about it?"

"Cut to the chase already, m'lady?" Damn, those dimples were back.

"Why me?" _M'lady?_

"Do I need a reason? Apart from the way you were making moon eyes at the rather fetching young bard on stage."

Donna tried desperately to hide her dismay. "He's my friend. Nothing more."

"Uh-huh." Fiann's grin suggested he thought otherwise.

"In fact, I'm staying with his family before we… We head out for Val Royeaux."

"Val Royeaux? Pity," Fiann said. "I'm off to Kirkwall. I'm running errands for a friend of mine whose face is a bit too well known in parts of Ferelden."

"Oh?" Donna asked. "Now _you're_ the one being deliberately mysterious."

Fiann laughed. "Don't think you're going to tease _that_ information out of me. You've got your secrets. I've got mine. For all I know, you're with the Carta, who're using you to bait a very tasty trap to ensnare a lone, dwarven entrepreneur."

"A dwarven entrepreneur who has time on his hands to try mislead innocent dwarven lasses who were quietly enjoying a pint in a tavern until _he_ came along." Donna couldn't help herself, she was enjoying this conversation despite herself.

"What can I say?" He shrugged, and held out his hands in supplication. "I often find myself incapable of resisting the temptation to stir trouble wherever I go."

"Evidently." Donna smirked.

The serving woman arrived with their drinks at just that moment, which suited Donna well enough.

"I've got this round," Donna said even as Fiann reached for his money. She had the coin in the elf's hand before he could protest. "Keep the change," she told the woman.

The elf raised a brow but took the money without complaint. "Anything else, ma'am?"

 _Ma'am?_ Donna had to bite her cheek from smirking. She'd never been _ma'amed_ before. A _m'lady_ and a _ma'am_ all in one night.

"That will be all. For now."

The woman departed, and Donna raised her tankard to Fiann. "To interesting meetings at the crossroads of life then."

"To feisty lasses who leave a man at odd ends and then some," he returned without skipping a beat.

The ale was pleasantly bitter and not as heavy as she'd expected, but Donna took only a small sip before she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"Good, huh?" Fiann asked. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the Lothering Gold brewed over at the Heron farmstead."

"Oh?" Donna regarded the brew.

"Rumour has it that he has a pair of hedge witches who enchant his hops," Fiann said.

Donna swallowed her smile. She wouldn't put it past either Lana or Beren to advise on the nurturing of the farmer's herbs.

"What's so funny?" Fiann asked.

"Oh, nothing." This time her smile slipped onto her lips.

One pint became two, then three. Not once did he make any untoward advances. Conversation with Fiann flowed. He seemed fascinated by her upbringing, even though she'd never left Redcliffe. Like her, he was of ascendant stock, though his father manufactured textiles while his mother handled distribution.

"I grew up on the road," he told Donna. "Me and my ma always travelling, sorting out suppliers an' such. Imagine their disappointment when I couldn't stop tinkering with things to take up the family business. Locks… any sorts of mechanism, really. Da really can't complain when I'm there to fix one of his looms, however."

He showed her a locket he'd made and how, if one slid a thumbnail into a tiny seam, the object flicked open to reveal a compartment where a note or another valuable could be hidden. Press the wrong, tiny lever, and the locket pricked the person tampering with it.

"Imagine if that were coated with poison," he said.

Donna's imagination was in overdrive listening to the dwarf. In her mind, she'd already cast him in a role as a master spy in service to the Inquisition, travelling about Thedas doing the bidding of Inquisitor Pentaghast. Oh, the stories she could write… A whole series of them.

 _The Spymaster's Raven_ had quite a nice ring to it… Donna smiled to herself.

Only when they'd had their fourth and final round, and Donna felt the heaviness of her limbs, did she realise exactly how late it was, and how much she'd drunk. Apart from her and Fiann, no one else remained outside, and the ruckus from inside the Refuge had died away to a low murmur.

Donna started. "Oh my, I must get back to see how far Evan's gotten."

"So soon?" Fiann seemed genuinely disappointed. "I was just getting warmed up on how I swindled that oily Antivan antiques dealer."

"Fiann, it's been lovely, but I _must_ go back. I'm already feeling horribly guilty because I said I'd be there to hear him perform, and I absconded." She got up, albeit a little unsteadily.

"I'll come with you," he said as he rose. "Just to make sure you're fine."

Donna snorted. "It's probably going to be the opposite of what you've suggested, but never you mind."

The Drunk Mabari was mostly empty by the time they arrived. Servers were busy bussing tables, sweeping and carrying away tankards. A few die-hards had draped themselves over the bar area, but what was abundantly clear was that last round had been called a good while ago already. Of Evan there was no sign.

"Damn," Donna said.

"He's not here then?" Fiann stood next to her.

She shook her head.

"You must be Donna," a woman said behind her.

Donna turned round to face an older woman with close-cropped, silver hair – the bard whom Evan would have performed with.

"Yes? Did he say where he'd gone?" _Damn it, Donna-love, you should have been here_.

"Said not to worry. He's gone off with some lass for the evening. He'll catch up with you tomorrow morning at the farm."

"Oh." Sour disappointment flavoured with the ale she'd consumed rose in her throat, and the muggy, stale air inside the tavern grew too close, made it too difficult to breathe and set her stomach churning. Out. _Now_.

"You all right?" the bard asked.

Donna shook her head and rushed outside, not caring that she shoved aside a startled-looking server carrying a mop and bucket.

Not that her hair was long enough to get in the way, but it was very kind of Fiann to still hold it from her face and pat her back while she quietly got sick around the corner.

 **Author's note:**

For my regular readers, sorry that I've missed out on my expected update earlier this week. Real life, band practice, varsity and deadlines all conspired to put a figurative spanner in the works. Also, on the topic of Fiann, he was supposed to be a one-off secondary character but I've kinda fallen a bit for him. I blame Aidan Turner's Kili. There. I'm swooning slightly again. [fans self]

You will see more Fiann in the future, unfortunately. I think he's a keeper.


	16. Don't Mix Your Drinks, Donna-love

Chapter 9

9:59

Fiann had been so adorable Donna almost wished she _had_ puked on his boots. Eventually she allowed him to walk her the distance back to the cottage. She'd felt so rotten, and had to stop so she could heave into the hedgerows every once in a while.

It was embarrassing. Usually she could drink any man or dwarf under the table if she should choose to. Then again, she hadn't had much to drink for weeks, and the stress of the journey and her changed circumstances must've had an effect on her constitution.

"Well, that's it then," she said to him when the cottage came into view. A light was still on in the front room, so she assumed that either Beren or Lana, or both, were still awake.

"Thank you. And I'm sorry I've been such a misery. There's a lot going on at the moment."

Fiann smiled and punched her lightly on the arm. "It's nothing. Even with all the puking, you've still brightened my evening by providing me with your company."

Donna groaned. "Please. Don't remind me. I'm going to regret all that ale tomorrow."

"Technically –" He held up a finger. "– it will be _later_ this morning. Once the sun is up."

"Andraste's tits. No."

"Yes."

"You look far too smug about it," she said.

His expression softened. "Sorry. I didn't mean –"

"It's all right. I'll live. I may wish I hadn't."

"Just drink enough water. And maybe those ladies will have something for your head."

"They probably will." Donna grimaced. She had eventually admitted with whom she'd been staying. "Well, that's it then. Thank you for everything." She made to go. Saying goodbye sucked druffalo bollocks.

He caught her arm lightly. "Wait."

Donna halted, her mouth unaccountably dry, her heart hammering.

Fiann turned her round to face him, and took her hands in his. His fingers were as callused as her own, and the sensation brought unexpected comfort.

She knew what must follow; it was clear he was interested in her. Very interested.

"How is it that cruel fate causes us to cross paths only for us to be headed in separate directions? I'd _really_ like to see you again."

"I –" Donna's words choked on her lips and she was grateful for the moonlight that bleached what was surely a telltale blush that crept up her cheeks. He'd said he was headed to Kirkwall once he'd completed his business transactions. She'd lied about her own destination. Naturally.

"You sure you don't say that to all the dwarven lasses you waylay in taverns?" Donna asked, and she prayed that she'd conveyed enough of a humorous, flippant tone to her words.

Fiann flinched ever so slightly. "No. I mean it."

"We've only just met. Tonight," Donna countered, hating herself for the fact that she wouldn't – _couldn't_ – give him the hope he was looking for. _It's too soon_. _Too much up in the air._

"That's why I don't want to let you slip through my fingers. I'd like to get to know you better. Please, if you ever come to Kirkwall, leave word for me by The Hanged Man. If I'm not there, ask for Varric Tethras. He'll know where to send word."

Donna gasped as if someone had filled her veins with iced water. "I've got to go. _Really_." She pulled away, and he let her. As she hurried down the track, she dashed away unexpected moisture from her eyes. This was so not happening. Yet why was she running away? Why was she so unexpectedly emotional about a father she had yet to meet and any connection she might run into along the way?

Donna didn't believe in fate, didn't believe in such peculiar synchronicity.

She paused to look back once she reached the front door. Fiann still stood there, a forlorn figure, hand half-raised in farewell. Donna unlatched the door and went inside without returning the gesture. Why did her chest hurt so much? Why was it so difficult to breathe?

Beren was hunched over an old ledger, painstakingly adding making notes. She glanced up at Donna, who was pressed against the door. A thumbprint of ink smudged the bridge of her nose.

"Evan not coming home tonight?" Beren asked.

Donna shook her head and gulped back a sob.

The tow-haired elf sighed. "Are you all right?" Concern creased Beren's brow.

"I had a bit too much to drink, that's all. Have been suffering the unfortunate results while walking back. Evan's found himself...company… For the rest of the evening. He'll be by in the morning."

Beren tutted, gave a slight shake of her head. "Oh, that boy. I wish he'd grow up and stop behaving like such a cad. He's twenty-two this year. By all rights he should've settled down already, found a nice girl. Gotten married, done all that."

"Marriage isn't everything," Donna said.

"True, but you can't blame us for wanting good things for him. Not this feckless wandering of his, though it's hardly surprising considering what he and his mothers got up to those first few years."

Donna's curiosity prickled and she seated herself at the table. "Can you tell more? _Will_ you?"

Beren's expression grew thoughtful. "I suppose it can't harm. It's bound to come out sooner rather than later, the longer you spend time with him, and you hardly strike me as the type who'd go around blathering something that could be potentially damaging to him. You can keep this to yourself, can't you? Don't even tell Evan that you know. He'll be furious. Rather let him be the one to have a slip of the tongue."

"I'm all ears."

Beren inclined her head and made a production of peering at Donna. "Mmm, you look more like an overly curious dwarven lass who's had her heart ensnared by a witless young fool who never knows the value of what he's got until he lets it slip out of his fingers."

This time there was no way for Donna to hide the blush that warmed her face.

"You'll get over him soon enough, I'm sure. You just need to meet a nice young man or a woman who isn't a complete idiot like my nephew."

Unbidden, her thoughts flew to Fiann who was, at this point, no doubt well on his way back to Lothering. "I've yet to meet someone special who isn't a complete fool," she said, though she hoped this wasn't entirely true. _Too soon. Way too soon_.

"Ah well, I guess I'm done with the records for the night. Or should I rather say morning?" Beren scanned her work then gently shut the ledger and rested one hand on the leather-bound cover. Her gaze grew distant and she sighed once before snapping her attention to an earthenware bottle on the dresser next to Donna. "Be a love and fetch us the prunelle and two goblets will you? It's never too early or too late for that when there are these sorts of stories to be told."

Donna complied and silently handed the indicated liqueur and receptacles to Beren, who poured with a flourish.

"Old Heron's best from two seasons ago," Beren said. "Fortunately we still have a few bottles stashed in the attic. You must take two up to Kirkwall when you go. I've a friend who'll appreciate the thought."

"Who?"

"A lady elf named Merrill. She's a bit goofy at times, but her heart is in the right place."

" _The_ Merrill? The one in –"

Beren laughed. "Our little family has _quite_ a few connections to some rather interesting folk. You had best get used to it if you're going to be part of my darling nephew's entourage. And, trust me, by now you'll have a good idea of how quickly he creates one."

Donna grimaced and sipped the prunelle. The liqueur was tart yet plummy, and the aftertaste was rich, verging on nearly overripe.

"Good, eh?" Beren asked, lips poised on the rim of her cup.

Donna nodded. "I have a feeling it's the sort of drink you must sip slowly lest it creeps up on you, raps you over the back of your head then rifles through your pockets for change."

Beren burst out laughing. "Oh my, you are a clever one. You should write some of these little sayings of yours down."

"I do, kinda. I have a story or two published."

"Oh?" Beren inclined her head.

Donna shrank in on herself slightly. She was never comfortable talking to others about her written work. "I'm not quite as famous as Varric Tethras, but I've had a few good reviews in some literary journals."

"Writing as yourself?" Beren asked.

"No. Definitely not."

The elf grinned. "You going to share your pen name?"

"No way. You'll never believe me."

"Come on now. Try me."

Donna grinned. "A girl's gotta hold a few cards close to her chest. Besides, I do believe you were the one who was going to spill a secret for me this morning."

"Oh, aye, I tell you what. I'll trade you Evan's if you share yours."

Donna made a production of pretending to mull the offer over then stuck her hand out over the table. "Deal." She would regret this later but right now she was filled with Fereldan courage thanks to her drink.

Beren accepted her hand and shook. "Excellent. Now, spill."

"I write as Scarlett Thorne."

Beren's laughter was musical. "Oh my! You're kidding me, right? Does Evan know?"

"He's never asked. I've never told him."

"Bloody typical." Beren tutted. "I guess it's a good thing you're going to Kirkwall then. I can't imagine it's been easy to get the stories published."

"Making a copy has always been the most time consuming. I can't pay scribes to do it for me."

"For sure."

"And sending the manuscripts by courier has always been a bit of a risk. An expensive one." Donna grimaced, remembering when one of her documents _had_ gone missing, and she'd had to rewrite the entire thing by hand. It had taken her weeks and chased a lot of coin out of her pockets. "Now, out with your side of the bargain." She sipped at her prunelle and savoured the way the liqueur helped ease her stomach. Hair of the dog, though granted it would do her better to drink tea.

"Where do I even begin?" Beren asked then sighed deeply. "My errant sister went missing about twenty-three-odd years ago. We were sixteen at the time. She came back just over twelve years later, with Evan in tow and, at first, very little explanation at first as to why it was that she'd gone. But, we're sisters. I teased the details out of her eventually. You see, the problem was, it wasn't so much that she'd been running around with another woman, it was a matter of _who_ she'd gone off with."

Beren paused for dramatic effect, sipped her prunelle then favoured Donna with a wicked grin. "Lana will absolutely _kill_ me if I tell you this, but I figure it's going to be grist for your mill. Just change any names and locations, all right? Don't be like that Varric Tethras airing _everyone_ he knows' dirty laundry in public."

"You don't have to worry about that," Donna said. "I really don't want anyone to have cause to send assassins after me for libelous gossip-mongering." She sipped at her drink.

"It was the Hero of bloody Ferelden who stole Lana's heart." Beren waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"What?" Donna nearly spat out her mouthful of prunelle.

"The woman had been passing through Lothering. It was some time just after the king had celebrated the birth of his first. Lana met her at the marketplace." Beren frowned. "I was away in Denerim at the time. By the time I'd returned, Lana was spending more time at the inn where her mistress was staying at the time than she was supposed to be here, tending to our livelihood. Lost a number of precious seedlings that year. Our mother was still alive at the time. Our unintended family feud was most acrimonious. Mother and I were both certain that the woman only sought to take advantage of Lana, and I guess we were right, to an extent.

"I saw them together only the one time. Our most esteemed Warden appeared to dote on my sister. It was all very touching. I did not expect to feel so jealous of her as I did at the time. It must've increased the amount of venom I injected into my words later.

"By the time we realised Lana'd upped and left, the Hero and her companions had already departed for the Maker only knows where. It was as if they'd dropped out of existence. How do I explain the complicated grieving process? At first you find yourself looking up the road at sunset, expecting a familiar figure to be walking down the track. Sometimes you go to market, and you hear laughter that tugs at your heart, but when you turn, it's someone else. I didn't know what I'd lost in my sister until it was too late to call her back.

"We used to finish each others' sentences. The one would fetch what the other needed without prompting. We'd come to the same conclusions, except when it came to matters of the heart. Life goes on, the pain of separation dulls. You begin to accept, you start forging a new identity. Where there was two, there is only one. You stop saying 'me and Lana' and you begin saying 'I'.

"The hardest part was when Mother died. A year before Lana's return. She developed a fever during winter. No herbs, no amount of love and care brought her back from the edge. I'd like to be dramatic and say it was a broken heart that did her in, but that would be something more apt for one of Master Varric's tales, wouldn't it?" Beren gazed evenly at Donna.

"A year on my own. It changes a person. I was busy. I had a hired help here on the farm. A pleasant youth. Human, but with a kind disposition. We were lonely. One thing led to another, and, after all, it was a long, bitter winter. Liam was a sweet young man, very earnest. He stayed well into spring but then the wanderlust took him. He swore he'd be back, that he'd care for us, but I don't hold it against him that he drifted off. I could have ended the pregnancy too, but I didn't have the heart. I think on a deeper level, I was aware of some void in my life, and at the time it hadn't even occurred to me to take precautions."

Donna spoke. "They are lovely boys."

"Not at all like their nephew," Beren added with a somewhat sour expression.

Donna pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn't want to agree.

"You don't have to say it," Beren said. "In any case, I had help from some of Farmer Heron's tenants – old Mistress Ivy and her spinster aunt Edina. They took turns to stay by me when Danyl and Janik were but a few weeks old so I could regain my strength and get used to my new life. But it was close to midsummer when Lana came back. I'll remember that afternoon for the rest of my life. The sun was westering and the sky had turned that delirious blood orange from all the dust kicked up during the wheat harvest. It was very warm, and Ivy bid me sit on the porch with my feet raised. The boys were in a basket next to me, asleep, and I was sipping a lime and lavender cordial that Edina had brought me. She'd even managed to find a block of ice from the big house, though no one was to breathe a word that one of Heron's visitors knew the magic to create that luxury. Mages weren't exactly free to practice their arts back then unless they were allied to a Circle.

"And it was then that I saw the two riders approach with two pack horses in tow. What fine clothing they wore, such tall, noble people – a woman and a youth. Beautiful, almost royal bearing. It took me a moment to realise that this lady and her companion were Lana and, as I would soon discover, my nephew Evan."

"It must've been quite the reunion," Donna said. Damn, if she wasn't getting all misty-eyed envisioning how the scene would've played out. It was worthy of a story. For sure.

Beren shook her head, dabbed at her eyes with her knuckles. "It was the best gift anyone could've given me."

"But there's still a piece of the puzzle missing," Donna pointed out.

Beren's smile was wicked. "Who Evan's father is, naturally."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Donna asked.

Beren sighed. "The Wardens' duties mean that they… It's not easy for them to have children."

"So the Hero had ulterior motives for seducing your sister." The pieces all fell into place.

Beren affected a little shrug. "Perhaps at first. But she assures me that the relationship was a happy one. They grew to love each other deeply, for many years until it became too risky for them to remain together. Duty called the Hero to places that were too dangerous for two women travelling with a small child. They felt it prudent that Lana return, for a while, to a place of safety. The Hero had agents establish whether the farmstead was still standing, then sent Lana back home, with Evan. It was for the best. Not even his father knows where he is, which is perhaps for the best, considering his current...duties."

A horrible, sneaky feeling crept over Donna. The Hero's liaison with a certain monarch was not unknown; in fact, she could name three tavern songs offhand that dealt chiefly with that ill-starred romance and the unhappiness of the Fereldan queen.

"No," Donna said and put her cup down a little too hard so that prunelle slopped onto the table.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, don't you breathe a word to _anyone_."

Donna's stomach lurched nastily and she had to run outside quickly lest she throw up all over the elven sisters' nice, neat peach pip floor.

 **Author's note:**

Okay, so I dropped this bomb now. I had to think long and hard over Evan's parentage, and considering what drinking that tainted darkspawn blood does to the Wardens' physiology, I thought it unlikely (though not impossible) that the female Hero and Alistair in my headcanon would be able to have children. Yet my Hero wanted something of her lover if she couldn't be with him, so she'd hatched this plan. Crazy, I know. But jawellnofine, this story is all about the next generation so here goes nothing...


	17. Dog Ends

Chapter 10

9:59

Despite feeling as if she'd been stampeded by a herd of druffalo, Donna couldn't sleep. Not after Beren's revelation. The elf had apologised for offering the prunelle, but Donna had countered by saying that she _should_ have known better to drink the stuff after having had her arse handed to her by the ale she'd consumed earlier.

So Donna sat on the front porch, watching the dawn steal away the night, sipping at the tisane Beren had prepared for her. Mercifully, she'd stopped dry-heaving after she'd kept down a thimbleful, and she kept taking small mouthfuls of the cooling liquid while the herbs did their work. She still felt like nug dung, though, and suspected she would feel rotten until she had a proper rest.

Beren's revelation about Evan's parentage had floored her. _That_ was the understatement of the age, so far as she was concerned. What to do with it was another matter. Her imagination had spun out a dozen possible stories. Her heart told her to say nothing, do nothing.

Another, darker thought nibbled at her, however. Those Tevinter "slavers" who'd attempted to kidnap Evan. Had they known too? For that matter, had Evan even told his mother and aunt about what had happened? During the past fortnight he'd had ample opportunity yet she hadn't seen or heard him go off to have that little heart to heart. Knowing Evan, he'd possibly shrugged off the entire matter, viewed it as a closed book. A chapter Donna had helped him conclude.

Perhaps he had the right of it. After all, what could Lana and Beren do about the incident? Granted, they had their connections… For all that those could help. Yet she tried to see the situation from Evan's point of view too. What must it've been like to grow up in the shadows of people who'd been heroes, who'd shaped the fates of thousands, slain demons and dragons? Those were mighty long shadows. How must it feel to know that one's father was a king yet not be acknowledged publicly as his son? To not have contact with him?

Resentment was quite possible. No wonder Evan wandered. Though it still didn't excuse the way he treated women. Damn it all, and now she was making excuses on his behalf. Stupid.

What of the Hero? Where was she now? Was she even alive?

"Damn you, Evan," Donna whispered. Here she was, hopelessly tangled in the tail ends of possibly one of the greatest stories ever told in Thedas – a story that hadn't had a happy ending.

Real life didn't have neat, convenient endings, did it? Perhaps that was why Donna wrote her stories, to find her resolution, to give people the happiness they lacked otherwise.

She closed her eyes, leaned back in the creaky cane chair and breathed in the morning. Sparrows scolded each other in the rafters. A goshawk sent its lone, shrill cry out from high above. The chill dawn air did much to settle the heat of her hangover, and as the sun crept up from behind the horizon, Donna slipped a little into a half-slumber that was only interrupted when Lana came outside.

Donna had learnt how to tell the sisters apart – Lana's ears had been pierced, and she wore a row of a dozen silver hoops in her left ear.

"Where's that ratbag of a child?" she asked.

Donna straightened, rubbed grit from her eyes. It was mid-morning already – she must've slept a lot longer than she'd expected – and a lazy heat was already spreading its blanket over the day. "He said he'd be back this morning…"

"I'm going to kick his arse for him," Lana said.

"I'm sorry I missed him yesterday evening when he finished playing," Donna said.

Lana pressed her lips into a thin line. "Not your fault. He knows I want to talk business with him today, which is why he's most likely made himself scarce."

"If you want, I'll go find him for you," Donna offered, and immediately hated herself for doing so. Because, face it, she was kind of angry with Evan. For a whole lot. But she couldn't prevent herself from caring either, and that made her more annoyed – with herself rather than anyone else. Having a dull, thumping hangover on top of next to no sleep didn't help either.

The world was too bright, and a little lopsided too, for that matter.

Lana hissed. "Ordinarily I'd tell you to leave the blighter where he keeled over, but if you'd be a dear and fetch him, I'll make it up to you."

"I'll just go get cleaned up," Donna said. Gah, she smelled like she'd slept in a stale brewery with her mouth open so rats could nest on her tongue. She couldn't think of a better – or worse – description of her present state of being.

By the time she hit the road to Lothering, it was close to noon, and Donna regretted her offer to retrieve Evan. However she couldn't quite shake a renewed sense of queasiness that had nothing to do with the quantity of ale she'd consumed the night before. He would have returned by mid-morning, surely. The girl he'd been with had to have been exceptional if he lingered, and in all the time she'd known him, he was the sort to clear out before sun-up, even.

The wicked brightness of the day did little to help her mood, and viewing the world through slit eyes barely made the entire unpleasant experience of walking to the town any better. She felt every pebble through the road's heated surface, and a mirage swam ahead of her, making the air appear liquid, a silvery sheen on the ground.

Pity that the oaks that had been planted to form an avenue entering Lothering were still small; they cast next to no shadow to cool the day as she made her way to The Drunk Mabari, where it took a few moments for her vision to adjust to the relative cool, darkness of the tavern.

The taciturn dwarf behind the bar raised a brow at her then continued decanting a liqueur into smaller bottles.

"Excuse me," Donna said as she approached the dwarf. "I'm looking for Evan, who was performing here last night. I was told he'd gone off with a lady friend."

"Pretty boy's girlfriend, are ya?"

" _Friend_ ," Donna replied through gritted teeth.

"Right you are." He sighed as if speaking to her was the greatest burden in the world. "Don't know the girlie he run off with, but she and her friends were staying over at Eileen Donal's place. Or so I heard it said."

"Which I'll find _where_ exactly?" Donna asked when it became clear that the dwarf wasn't about to be forthcoming.

"Three blocks down, take a right at the big half-timbered house that hasn't been finished yet, then another four blocks down 'til you hit the river."

"Three blocks down…" Donna murmured to herself. Maker's bollocks, she loathed getting half-cocked directions from assholes. "Thanks." _For nothing_.

Her temper matched the scorching sun by the time she reached the Donal residence which, judging by the state of it, could use about of tender loving care to match the dwellings on either side. It was a double-storey dwelling with a gable that had been propped up with beams. Piles of rubble lay out front and, judging by the profusion of weeds pushing between the stones and chunks of masonry, had been lying there for a long time. The place itself appeared to have been rebuilt after the troubles that had razed most of the town a few years back, but had halted with little indication as to whether the present owners would continue.

Three youths – two human and a dwarf who looked like he had mange – lounged beneath a sickly looking oak and gave her the stink eye as she approached the building. Donna adjusted her knives. Good thing she never went anywhere without _her_ friends.

What had Evan been thinking coming here with the woman? That's if he had, in fact, come here at all. Prickling unease had her even more aware as she knocked at the entrance. No answer, but the door was ajar, and the top panel swung inward, inviting her to step over the threshold into a narrow, wood-panelled hallway with darkened doorways leading off of it. A stairway curved up to the next floor directly ahead of her, but she was not prepared to trespass.

The reek of stale pipeweed assailed her senses and Donna entered, alert to the slightest shift in sound or air. A waft of overboiled cabbage added to the general miasma that included the tang of mildew and dog.

"Hello?" Donna called.

A low growl sounded to her left and she froze, turned slowly to face a large dog of indeterminate breed that looked as if it had a fair dollop of Mabari in its bloodline. Oh shit.

" _Goooood_ boy," Donna crooned and stood perfectly still.

The beast wasn't quite as large as its illustrious ancestor, its muzzle sharper and giving a decidedly more wolf-like appearance, but its hackles went down and the creature whined. The stump of its tail twitched slightly. Not quite a wag, but at least the creature wasn't baring its teeth anymore. She'd always had a knack with dogs, even if she'd never owned one herself.

"Good boy."

"Who's there?" a woman yelled from deeper in the house.

The dog growled again, and Donna called out. "Sorry to disturb, ma'am, I'm looking for someone who may have spent the night here."

A human woman Donna estimated to be in her middle years bustled in from the door immediately to her right. She wiped her hands on a dirty apron and peered down at Donna as if she were something the dog had dragged in.

"Can I help you?"

"A friend of mine. He came visiting here last night with some of the ladies who're apparently lodging with you?" Donna smiled, and hoped she could convey some hopefulness in her manner.

Her attempt was met with a scowl. "There's no ladies here. Now unless you're of a mind to rent a room, you best clear off 'fore I call the guard."

Donna sucked in a breath. Not for the first time in her life did she wish that she too could loom and appear menacing if she wanted to. "All right. _Gentlemen_. Are there any gentlemen who booked rooms with you, who _may_ have checked out this morning?"

"What's it to you?" the woman snapped. "Now, clear off! We don't deal with your sort here."

Donna bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood. The gall of the dried-up twunt. With great difficulty, she bid the woman a good day in the sweetest voice she could manage, certain that her complexion had vacillated between prune and icy-white rage. If she stayed one moment longer, she might skewer her, or do something else she'd have the opportunity to regret later.

Only once she was outside, and had wandered several paces from the door did Donna give vent to a stream of profanities, including many descriptions that she had just made up on the spot. The three youths who'd given her the eyeball earlier, mysteriously chose that moment to wander away without casting glances in her direction.

Clues. She needed blighted clues. Something was off. As in the kind of _off_ that had set her senses tingling that night at their encampment when the blighted Vints had tried to kidnap Evan. Once she was certain that there were no casual observers, Donna went around the residence to the back. The alley between the buildings was possibly even more choked with rubble and weeds than the front, but there was a well-worn path for her to follow and, judging by the horse dung scattered on the ground, this was the route to the stables out back.

The other benefit of the unkempt yard meant that she had plenty of cover courtesy of a row of lemon trees that had been allowed to grow wild. The over-ripe lemons had been left where they'd fallen, and the sharp, rotten citrus stench prickled her nose. She poked about the stable where she found day-old dung in three stalls. Three horses then. Possibly. Judging by the water buckets that still contained liquid. Ugh. Dirty water.

 _Need more information_.

Something glinted in the growth next to the stables, and she went over to investigate. Mother-of-pearl inlay. Shattered spruce soundboard. Broken lute.

In a flash, it felt as if all the blood had drained from Donna's body to pool at her feet, and she had to steady herself against the crumbling masonry of the stable wall.

Evan's lute. Broken into kindling. As if someone had enjoyed smashing the instrument. Her breath wheezed, and Donna had to force herself to take in slow, deep lungfuls. So not good. None of this was good.

 _Idiot_.

And herself, doubly an idiot. She should have counselled him not to make a spectacle of himself by playing at the Mabari. She should have needled him more to find out whether he'd even discussed the attempted kidnapping with his family, _especially_ considering who his parents were. If it weren't for her gadding about with Fiann, she could've prevented any of this from happening.

A growl escaped her and she only just managed to stop herself from punching the wall. Stupid reaction. Punching walls only resulted in bruises and skinned knuckles. She knew that from experience.

There was nothing more that she could do here, except try to find out who'd been lodging with that bitch Eileen Donal, and possibly get descriptions. After that, she'd need to hurry back to Lana and Beren. Her head spun. She didn't want to consider all the implications. And, not just that, but the sheer idiocy of all parties involved.

Why risk having another royal bastard running around in the first place? Even if that had turned out all right for Ferelden in the end. Andraste's tits and arse! If she could kick King Alistair's butt for him at this moment for not keeping his royal cock in his breeches she would've.

"On the bright side, at least they didn't want Evan dead," Donna muttered to herself. As if that was such a silver lining to the entire debacle. What the kidnappers _wanted_ with a royal bastard…

If she were to do the sensible thing, Donna would wash her hands of this entire sorry debacle _now_ and get her arse on the next coach to Highever, where she could book passage to Kirkwall and be done with everything. Evan would never love her. Not like she wanted him to. She _knew_ that; she understood that perfectly. _Had_ understood that for ages, even if she'd tagged along for whatever crumbs of affection he'd deigned to toss in her direction. As friends went, he was pretty shitty too, but then she'd been put in a position where she'd had to leave everyone else she cared about behind her. A shitty friend was better than no friends. Right?

Yet she couldn't abandon him now. Despite his bad choices. No one deserved to be abandoned. Even _him_.

Donna paused, blinking in the noon sun, her throat tight, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

One last time. _Just_ this once, she'd haul his arse out of the fire, for closure, for the fact that it would be for Lana and Beren, and Janik and Danyl, who were his family. Then she would be off. To Kirkwall. For _her_ closure and the rest of her blighted life to be _her own._

"Get out there, have adventures, my arse. More like _mis_ adventures." Donna grimaced and went in search of those three, ratty youths she'd seen earlier. Time to strong arm some information out of the wastrel fools. She had a suspicion they might sing quite nicely if she squeezed the right spots.

 **Author note:**

This is Donna's big a-ha moment and yes, it's hurting her a lot. She has a big heart and her main problem is that she cares too much. But we're going to leave her for a while now and return to someone else, who's done some growing up during the past ten years. If you were wondering how any of this ties together, don't worry. I have a plan. Sort of. ;-)


	18. Oh, da'len

_Part 3: A Fool's Errand_

Chapter 18

9:59, early August

Afternoon light slanted through the forest giants' canopy as Seith picked his way between the massive buttress roots that clutched the earth with gnarled fingers. He carried his staff with confidence – or tried to, because he still wasn't used to its heft – though his heart was hammering so hard he thought he'd get sick. An hour, he estimated, judging by the angle of the spears of sun. Solas had gone off to gather herbs and Seith was ostensibly supposed to be working through a series of meditations – to aid his concentration and sharpen his focus, apparently.

Bright parrots feathered in jewellike hues called to each other, flew ahead, and scolded the interloper who disturbed their territory. The afternoon rainstorm had left the world fresh, washed clean, and the earth steamed.

Seith had an hour to try a wild theory of his. Then he'd have to hurry back and manufacture a convincing pretence that he was a dutiful son learning his art at his father's feet.

Nothing had grown in the crater for more than a decade. Just shy of sixteen years, to be precise. Seith could pinpoint the event that had damaged this part of the Arbor Wilds down to the very day, because this was where his mother had vanished into the Fade exactly three months after his birth.

He knew this, because he'd dreamt here. Call it a hunch, but when he'd discovered the place two weeks before, and Solas had seemed cagey about its true nature, he'd returned later to investigate.

Sixteen years ago there'd been an altar of sorts at the crater's centre, a simple structure that had consisted of a slab of rough stone upon which a large bowl had been placed. Flanking this had been two statues – seated wolves that had faced outward. Teniël, the spirit known as Cole, and two others for whom Seith had no names yet, but he knew they'd been important – a dark-haired woman and a youth – had approached. The woman and the youth had hung back, the youth shaking his head, pleading even. Teniël, his mother, looking so young, so delicate, had approached the altar and had placed an object in it. She'd begun chanting, the words distorted through time and space. Cole had hopped from foot to foot, clearly agitated, wringing his hands. Tears had rolled down Teniël's cheeks and the mark on her left hand began to spark, grow brighter. Then an actinic flash had consumed the vision, and even in his dream he had felt the reverberations that rippled outward, warping the Fade.

Some understanding had nagged after his dream at the crater, and he'd considered the freshwater pearls he and his father sometimes found while out gathering. Pearls formed when grains of sand irritated the oysters' soft flesh, Solas had explained. This past week Seith had poked at a theory – admittedly quite beyond what he was used to considering – as to why this particular place in the material plane and in the Fade, felt so barren. An inverse reaction, perhaps. The Fade had encapsulated an irritant, an event that could have damaged it in some way.

Knowing his father's fascination with any oddities related to the Fade, Seith found Solas's reticence to discuss this area more than a bit curious. A change of subject, whenever the topic came up, followed by a request to fetch something that didn't need fetching. Deflection. Seith wanted to point out that he was well aware of Solas's avoidance. He wasn't six anymore, and easy to distract with baubles.

Of course little rivalled the hard knot of betrayal he presently carried in his belly. While Solas hadn't _lied_ , as such, his silence by omission was perhaps worse, because he clearly _knew_ more about this area of the Wilds than he was willing to let on.

Creators! Teniël and Solas had been _lovers_. Did that not mean _anything_ to his father? This was Seith's _mother_. A mother who'd left him when he was still a babe in swaddling, to embark on some fool's errand. _She didn't want you_.

And his real father hadn't exactly come looking for him either during the first six years of Seith's life either, though he'd often told Seith that he would have, _had_ he known of the unintended results of the union. Could he trust anything his father had shared with him over the years? Solas was not Dalish, yet his knowledge of nature possibly rivalled that of any Dalish hunter they'd encountered during their travels. By the same measure, Solas was no city elf either, uncomfortable beyond the limits of a town's limits. He spoke of distant events, as if he'd lived through them personally, with an authority Seith felt he himself could not claim, though he had mastered his father's ability to dream up the past and examine it in minute detail.

"But how do you _know_? This is the Fade, after all," Seith asked. "The Fade can shape itself to show what you _think_ you want to see. Not what was, is or could be."

At that, Solas would merely offer him that infuriating, mysterious smile of his then set him some apparently meaningless, menial task.

"Be patient, da'len. You will see."

 _Little child_ , indeed. He bristled.

If he heard _be patient, da'len_ one more time he was going to throttle his father. Or make an attempt, at the very least. Seith was pretty sure he'd come off second best in any physical altercation. His father was taller than him, by a head, and broad of the shoulder, for an elf. Seith had made peace with the fact that he resembled his mother more – the same sharp, nearly vulpine features, the hair, the eyes. _Fade-green eyes_ , his father had told him a few times before giving in to a wistful sigh.

The crater was exactly as Seith had last seen it – a perfectly round depression, exactly a foot deep, bare of any regrowth. The ground itself was powdery, which was completely at odds to the loam-rich soil of the forest. Plants abutting the crater grew wilder, lusher than their brethren further away. Some of the flowers had triple, quadruple the amount of petals to their blooms.

The mere fact that the small hairs on Seith's arms and the back of his neck prickled, warned him that the environment was livid with magic. Should he go through with this? Second thoughts, much? He grimaced. He had to try. In a day or so, they'd be travelling onward. Solas had mentioned ruins he'd wanted to revisit, that what they'd find there would provide Seith with a bigger picture related to conflict that had occurred a few centuries before the first Blight. An integral part of his continued education, apparently.

Seith snarled to himself. How much longer would he have to live like a vagrant grubbing about among the crumbled remains of long-dead civilisations?

It was time for him to take control of his situation, to _do_ rather than dream. He crouched by the edge of the crater and controlled his breathing, willed himself to be calm. It would do him no good to go into this magical working angry.

In principle, what he was about to do would work. It was a temporal spell he'd written himself, based on the location, as well as the strength of the Veil (which was thin, here, admittedly). He hadn't had the opportunity for much book learning, because they couldn't carry much with them whenever they moved, but in _theory_ he felt confident that he was on the right path. Seith's natural affinity for spirit- and Fade-related magic meant that he often understood implicitly _how_ to do something, even if he couldn't quite put it into words.

He and Solas had argued about it often. What was the point of all the boring stuff related to when magic behaved as both wave _and_ particle, and how, when approaching its own singularity at the point of release, magical energy possessed infinite time? Gurn droppings, so far as he was concerned. He felt magic. Anticipated how it might react and adjusted accordingly, and this had served him just fine for the smaller workings.

What concerned Seith more were the consequences today's attempt might have. Small tweaks here and there, more regular magical operations, like casting barriers – that usually went without a hitch. In fact, he was _good_ at those spells. Regular spells.

But it was the bigger events, like every time Seith broke the rules so to speak, and did things most mages were most emphatically _not_ supposed to do – _that_ was the trouble.

"It's like swimming in the ocean when you've got an open wound," Solas had explained to him. "Demons, spirits – they're like sharks attracted to a wound bleeding out. Your ability."

Yet it didn't rest well with Seith to stick to the boring, routine spells when he _knew_ he could accomplish so much more. If only he could figure out how to modify his magical signature so that his actions didn't create so much backlash. It was like learning to dive into a pool of water in such a way to not splash, but how was he supposed to learn not to splash about so much when his father forbade him from practising? When practising might even prove to be the end of him.

He might not have all the right words to explain what he was about to do, but on a deeper, instinctual level he _understood_ what he needed to do, how he would have to tug at the Fade, at the Veil and coax out the desired results. If he worked just _so_ he could reach his mother, bring her back. Then maybe he could stop those dreams of her that still lingered at the edges of his sleep, the ones from which he sometimes awoke tangled in his blankets with a barely vocalised "mamae" formed on his lips. Solas felt that the right meditations might keep those dreams at bay. Seith, therefore, made a point of avoiding those meditations.

The sandy soil of the crater was cold to the touch, and the tiny zings of imbued magical essence set Seith's teeth on edge as he crossed over the surface to the centre of the blast area. The air had taken on a fractured quality, as if he viewed the world through facets of rock crystal. Magic was all around him, buzzing just behind the Veil, churning in the Fade, begging for him to use it, to tease it out and make it dance. Little sparks of green static flitted around his fingers, around the raven skull that topped his staff.

The promise of power ached marrow deep, infusing his entire body until he felt that it was only with the greatest of effort that he held himself together, that he didn't spatter into an explosion of parts at the slightest whisper. His magic _wanted_ to be used, it _wanted_ to come out and play, affect the world around him.

Whatever event his mother had set in motion all those years ago, it was potent. What _had_ she been doing? Summoning Solas? Could one summon a person? One summoned spirits, demons, gods perhaps, but not people. Not using what he suspected was a modified binding ritual. Once again, he didn't quite have the words for what he felt here, only the intense _need._ A soul sickness. Was that what love tasted like?

Why his father winced sometimes when Seith mentioned Teniël's name?

" _Why did you leave her?"_

" _To protect her. She had that_ shem, _after all." A sneer._

He was more of a father to me than you ever were. _"It was over between her and_ Cullen _the moment I was born. What makes you think her friends wouldn't have stood her by, stood_ you _by, if all that you're doing is grubbing around like a jackal in an ash heap? Alone."_

" _There's a greater danger at play here."_

" _Really, Father? You call the odd stray Venatori or darkspawn a greater danger?"_

" _Go gather some firewood for tonight. We're running low."_

Seith knelt, splayed his right hand palm down on the ground. He unpacked the spell in his mind, like fingers tugging at skeins of wool. Colder than it should be in this forest, where deep layers of leaf litter steamed once the afternoon showers cleared. The magic pulsed, dragging at the blood in his veins, whispering in his bones. It was like parting heavy fronds of seaweed while dragging his consciousness through heavy water, shimmering towards the light that gleamed in the depths. His world narrowed down to reaching for that brightness. So many images. So many different meanings.

 _Teniël_.

A soft crump of existence around him, a decompression, and he opened his eyes to a world bathed in emerald light. Two realities superimposed over the other. Ghostly vegetation shivered over the bare earth.

 _Time_. It had been a temporal disturbance all along. Teniël paused on the cusp of stepping, trapped in an eternity between one heartbeat and another. The horror had him nearly cry out. For him, sixteen years had passed. For her, _none at all_. Trapped like a fly in amber.

 _What had gone wrong?_

Teniël stood before the altar, growing more and more distinct as Seith dragged with every fibre of his being at the fabric of the material world, the Veil and the Fade. A distant thunder, like the roar of a mighty waterfall.

Teniël turned, her eyes wide, mouth parted in an _O_ of shock as she saw him.

"Who are you, boy?" Her voice echoed as if she spoke in a temple. She glanced about wildly. "Morrigan? Kieran? Cole? Where did y –"

Before he could answer, he dropped the threads. He simply couldn't hold it all together any longer. It was the only way he could explain the elasticity of the backlash that sent him flying into a patch of ferns. Gasping for air. Cold sweat. Shivers. Shakes.

 _Everything_ hurt. Whatever mana reserves he'd possessed had vanished, fled. Reality was _un_ reassuringly solid around him, down to the pungency of the rotting plant matter, the way his leg was twisted painfully underneath him. Each breath was torture, as if a bronto knelt on his chest and made it impossible for him to draw in the air to keep him alive. His vision spiralled with disturbances, the world around him at once too bright and maddeningly blank.

His staff lay several paces from him, snapped in three places. Whatever backlash he'd sparked off had broken a solid length of iron as if it were a mere splinter. Lyrium crystals sparked, sizzled and evaporated.

 _Fenedhis_. That didn't even begin to cover his predicament. A mage's staff wasn't easy to come by. Without it, he lacked focus, was essentially crippled.

Seith groaned as he eased himself into a seated position. Around him the forest had grown hushed. Not even an errant tree frog whistled. Waiting. _Fenedhis_. Oh, he knew what was coming.

He had to get out of here. _Now_. Already he could pick up the faint drubbing at the edges of his awareness that presaged the arrival of the inevitable result of his meddling. If only he'd not let go of those threads. He hadn't meant to. They'd just… sprung loose.

Despite the hurt, despite feeling as if he'd rather curl around himself into a tight little knot, Seith stumbled to his feet and started running. Vegetation slapped him through the face, thorns caught in his hair. He didn't stop. Stumbling more than running – but he had to get away from the epicentre of his colossal mistake before …

Behind him, the Veil fractured, crackled.

Solas was going to _kill_ him. That's if whatever had just stepped through the Veil didn't get him first.

 **Author's note:**

Run, Seith! Run! [cue evil author laughter]

Just to give you an idea of where in the timeline this fits, we left Donna two months previously, during the month of Justinian.


	19. Ill-considered choices

Chapter 19

9:59, early August

When Solas was angry, he'd suck his breath in, firm his lips into a thin line and somehow _loom_ over Seith. When he was furious, however… Seith could feel the crackling of his father's magic at the very edges of his being, as if for Solas it was a supreme challenge to _not_ lash out.

At present, Solas could be deemed incandescent in his fury. His magic made the air somehow heavier around him, for lack of better description.

"Just what were you thinking?" Solas paced the length of the blasted area where they'd made their stand against the Pride demon that had chased Seith for at least half a mile through the forest. Even a forest giant had fallen to a stray bolt of Solas's rift magic when his father had come to the rescue. The blast had missed Seith by a hair's breadth as he'd dodged the sinuous arc of the demon's electrified whip.

Solas halted before Seith, leaned over him. "You _weren't_ thinking. Your blighted hubris. You could've gotten yourself –" He jerked away as if stung, turned his back on Seith and glared at the swathe of destruction. The forest was silent except for his father's laboured breathing.

"If you die… I'd never..." Solas murmurred.

"And _you_ never overreached yourself, experienced errors of judgment, _Father_?" Seith was not quite able to avoid a sly turn to his words.

Solas hissed. "There is too much of me in you. I should never have –"

"Never _what_?" _Loved my mother?_

"I should have sent you back to Skyhold. You'd be safer there."

"And then what? So they could pack me off into a Circle like the Divine wanted? You _forget_." Seith's anger uncoiled itself again at the unfairness of the situation. "I never asked for any of this."

Solas turned, but his expression was a mask, blank. The only tell of his fury was the way he gripped his staff in his right hand, the knuckles white. "You don't think I'm not aware of it? I've been trying to make the best of a bad situation. You're not helping."

"So, I'm the result of a _bad_ situation? Perhaps if you didn't treat me like a child barely out of its swaddling –" Years of poorly buried hurt welled up in him.

His father made a cutting gesture with his left hand. "Perhaps if you tried to behave like a proper apprentice, I wouldn't need to treat you like you were barely out of swaddling. I don't even know what we're going to do about finding a new staff for you out here… This is a problem." Solas's brow furrowed in concentration, concern, and his gaze grew distant.

"I'm not just some apprentice, to be ordered around. I'm your _son_. Your flesh and blood. _Kin_. Or do you forget that? Or do you think that, like the way you treated my mother, I am but a convenient tool that functions on order in your world? Deserving of your ire because it doesn't always do what it's told to fit in with your plans?" Seith shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Whatever order seems to exist in this wild nug hunt you've led me on these past few years."

Solas flinched, held up his hand to stay further conversation. "I think we both need some time alone. To reflect."

"That's all we ever seem to do. _Nothing_ ," Seith spat. "And when I want to _know_ certain things, it's always 'later, da'len' or 'when you're ready, da'len' or 'go meditate, da'len'."

" _Da'len_."

White-hot fury made Seith want to scream; in fact despite his depleted mana, he could sense the warping of the Veil around him, of how even when he didn't try, he was unconsciously making that fragile barrier between this reality and the Fade thinner.

The look Solas gave him was cold, imperious even, and Seith quailed when his father's usually mild, somewhat aloof countenance slipped to reveal another side to he'd not seen before directed _at_ him. And it frightened him – _deeply_ – and cast ice over his anger. Those eyes had borne witness to events he could not fathom.

Seith looked away, kept his face downturned. "Ir abelas."

"I will see you later, _da'len_. Look inward and master your emotions lest you fall prey to your pride. We will discuss what you have found later, when we are both calm and rational. And we can do something about the fact that you need a new staff." _So damned reasonable._

Seith gritted his teeth. "As you wish." He watched as Solas picked his way between the trees and was soon lost among the foliage.

The residual heat of his anger still warmed his face and he let go of a long hiss of frustration. Point was, he was damned tired of looking inward and being contemplative, of spending half his blighted life _asleep_ and dredging the Fade for whatever kernels of the past he encountered. The way he felt at present, he could even stomach living among the Dalish if it meant he'd have authentic contact with other people. Not that the Dalish would have him, what with him being a mage and everything. The absence of his staff was further reminder of his failure, and he felt the weapon's loss keenly. It might've only been an apprentice's, salvaged by Solas out of ancient Vint ruins, but it had been _his_ , and he'd been proud of it until he'd inadvertently reduced it to so much scrap metal. Now, even more than before, he was reliant on Solas for his safety.

Disconsolate, he returned to their camp, which was set in the hollow created by a fallen pillar. What else could he do? And not for the first time, he found himself wondering about Skyhold, and about the people he'd left behind so many years ago. Their faces had grown dim and yet he found himself unaccountably longing for them. Cullen had always been so patient with him, Josie so kind. Even those two girls he'd been friends with, Gerda and Shey. What had become of them?

 _You can never go back_.

His throat grew tight and Seith took a deep breath to master himself. It was better that he never returned. Solas was right: Seith's magic was too wild, too unpredictable. Without guidance, he was liable to drag half the Fade into the material world the next time his casting went awry. If Solas hadn't been there, Seith would never have been able to overcome that Pride demon. He'd have been smeared into the leaf litter and the demon would've been free to wreak further havoc.

Yet to continue this current lifestyle stuck in his craw. To always be _da'len_ in Solas's eyes…

Then again, what if he never practised magic again? Was it even possible?

What if he just… _vanished_ , allowed Solas the solitary existence he so obviously craved…

Seith was proficient in archery. Not the greatest, but he could hunt, fletch his own arrows, set snares. He knew which herbs would cure or kill, where to forage for edible plants, how to build shelter. He wasn't the helpless, frightened six-year-old who'd fallen out of the Fade a decade ago.

"I'll give us both some time to reflect," Seith murmured then started gathering his things. There were other places where he could find knowledge. Realy knowledge. Here, with his father, he was nothing more than an inconvenience. Let Solas come find _him_ if Seith were that important to him.

The more he considered it, the more the thought of striking out on his own excited Seith. Where would he go, however? Skyhold, perhaps, if he was careful. Not ideal, but it wasn't an entirely rotten idea. If he didn't wear the trappings of a mage openly, no one would consider that he was one. They probably thought he'd been lost in the Fade all those years ago, never to return. Few would recognise him.

An old yearning tugged at him, to walk those passages again, to feel the enclosing stone around him – safety, his first home. Also – closure. He longed to see his foster-father, who must surely have been carrying a burden of hurt all these years. Then he could move on. Perhaps he could seek Dorian Pavus, who might also have some ideas on how he could rescue his mother. Seith's heart gladdened at the prospect. The human mage had been close to Teniël, and would overturn Thedas to help her if he could. If he knew that there was hope, to start with.

Of a more practical nature was the library. Surely there were books there he could consult? Discreetly, of course. Fiona had always been pleasant, and she might be able to suggest opportunities for research. There was Cassandra too. How would she respond to his return? As head of the Inquisition she might see herself duty bound to have Seith packed off to a circle. He shook his head. No time to worry about potential outcomes. It was time that he took risks, followed courses of action that would deliver tangible results instead of hunting the Fade for the ripples Solas kept on about.

Ripples of what? Ripples of his own disquiet over some sort of danger he refused to go into detail about. _What about me? What about_ my _life?_

Half an hour was all it took for Seith to bundle a few meagre belongings. Enough to get by. Though he had his bow, he still went and cut himself a stout stick. Not quite a staff, but it comforted him to have a facsimile. It might give a casual observer pause for thought.

Damn his father and all his secrets. Seith allowed himself a last glance around the campsite before he melted into the Arbor Wilds, as feral as any of the creatures that lurked among the trees.

#

For three days he travelled in a north-easterly direction. The Frostbacks would eventually form a barrier to the east. That much he knew from his travels. Autumn meant a crossing into the mountains would be fraught with danger, so he'd have to skirt along the foothills in the Dales and travel northward until he reached the Imperial Highway. Perhaps he could play the young, hopeful Inquisition recruit to whomever he met. Of all the places Seith could go, he was certain that Skyhold was the last place in Thedas Solas would willingly set foot. All the more reason to go there, then, despite his initial misgivings.

Emboldened by that plan, he pushed himself as hard as he dared. He slept in bursts, and whenever he found his energy flagging, he knew which leaves to chew to promote wakefulness. Seith would not be able to keep up this pace indefinitely, but at present he worried too much that Solas might find him, and he understood enough of his father's methods to prevent him from waylaying him in the Fade.

Being on the move had filled him with a sense of vitality, a purpose again. He had a few nerve-wrecking moments when he'd nearly walked into a great bear, but he'd been quick about sliding out of sight before the massive beast even figured out what that it should be upset about an intruder.

Every day that Seith remained outside of Solas's influence made him feel lighter, yet he couldn't help a small measure of remorse. Seith had acted rashly, he understood that. Impulsive, was the word he'd rather choose, but his decision had been made without thinking things through fully. Like what would happen if the reception he received in Skyhold was less than friendly. After all, they had been more than willing to pack him off to a Circle…

Here was, striking off into the unknown like an ungrateful wretch, yet admitting the error of his ways, turning around and going back to Solas was not an option either. What small magics Seith allowed himself were minor – the casting of a barrier, small and close to his person to deflect attention; the starting of fires, when he allowed himself to cook meals; and wards whenever he rested, twisted from skeins teased out of the Veil. When he was gone from a place, he made sure not to leave a trace. Not even a Dalish hunter could track him. Or so he hoped.

Yet he pressed on. He had to find some help, and surely Cullen would want to know what had befallen Teniël. This was a slim hope, because Seith was certain that whatever rift had opened between the Commander and his one-time lover would have been acrimonious. Would Cullen care enough to bend what Seith hoped was the considerable weight of the Inquisition behind this desperate venture of his? He didn't know. He had to try. Cullen deserved closure as much as Seith did.

On the fifth day, he encountered an Orlesian expedition. They were easy to avoid while they hacked a path for themselves in a south-westerly direction. Their speech was nearly incomprehensible, but it was clear that their leader was an unpleasant man, the way he treated his porters, a large number of whom were elves. Seith waited for them to pass before he padded along their route path for a while, content to let the damage of their passing cover whatever spoor he left behind. Then, when that no longer pleased him, he cut back into the wilderness.

That was something else – he hadn't spoken anything but elven for such a long time, he worried a little about how he'd manage to fit in with others. Damn Solas to the Deep Roads for keeping him away from civilisation. His common tongue would be rusty indeed. Never mind the incomprehensible gabble of Orlesian.

That night, he shinnied up the trunk of one of the forest giants, discomforted, because he was approaching places where others dwelt. The forest itself felt _thinner_ for lack of better description. He'd encountered an abandoned logging camp not far back. Also signs of an ancient quarry, and places where people had clearly carted away masonry from an Elvhen temple. The ancient Tevinter ruins he'd passed earlier that morning had been excavated extensively, rubble in neat piles, as if whoever had been stationed there had possessed the leisure and the means of a thorough search. Possibly Orlesian researchers, he suspected. He and Solas had encountered the odd team during the past few years. The mostly human expeditions made his father incredibly angry, and had resulted in considerable ranting (for Solas) about humans not understanding any artefacts they might plunder yet he'd not gone into specifics when Seith had questioned him further.

Seith set his wards, wedged himself tight into a hollow on the branch, and slipped into sleep made dreamless by exhaustion. When a rough hand grabbed his arm, it was completely unexpected, and he flailed about him in the darkness. Torches bobbed about on the forest floor.

Men shouted in what he thought was Tevene from below.

Why had his wards failed? How had his would-be captors known to look for him up here in the tree? He'd been so careful.

His senses kicked into hyper-awareness, Seith yelled and lashed out, nearly overbalanced and fell, but yet more hands gripped him, held him steady. He drew hard on his mana, but before he could release, a needle prick in his neck resulted in spreading iciness. A curious lassitude flooded him, his eyes drifted shut, and he knew no more.

 **Author's note:**

Yes, I'm nasty and I'm going to leave you here to stew in your own juices for a few days before I update again. Because there've been a bunch of others who've done exactly the same to me with cliffies, so I'm just passing along the favour. [snerk]


	20. An Orchestrated Event

Chapter 20

9:59, early August

Louhan stalked ahead of Donna in the gloaming Wilds, and she envied the elven Inquisition scout her ability to make stalking their quarry appear so effortless. And silent. Their team was small by necessity – six of the Inquisition's best rogues and Donna – sent into the depths of the Arbor Wilds to retrieve an errant royal bastard.

It was more than Evan deserved, but the consensus among the Inquisition's inner circle was clear: a royal bastard in the wrong hands was Not A Good Thing. Also, she hadn't meant to overhear that their retrieval was to become an _elimination_ if said royal bastard could not be extracted. Grim and unhappy throughout the weeks this mission had taken her so far, Donna was determined not to let the elimination part take place.

The way she felt now, if she never set foot in the Arbor Wilds again, it would be a moment too soon. From time to time, their route followed ancient roads. Whether these were Tevene or Elvhen, she knew not nor did it matter whenever they were faced with fast-flowing, hungry rivers that cut through the land that they had to somehow cross. Or the blighted midges and bugs that never stopped whining around her head, in search for an easy meal. Nor the fact that the humidity in the air made her lungs feel as if she were inhaling syrup. The snakes… The critters that hooted and called unseen in the canopy above them. The centipede she'd shaken out of her boot this morning. The fact that her clothing was permanently glued to her skin. Swampy smallclothes. Ugh.

Donna's list of _Things To Hate About The Arbor Wilds_ grew by the hour. If she returned to civilisation without succumbing to some virulent fungus that ate her flesh from the feet up, she'd write an epic treatise about why this blighted place should be avoided at all costs and why anyone who plunged into it willingly deserved to be devoured by bears. Make that great bears.

The past two months had flown by in a blur, and even now she found it difficult to conceive at how rapidly her life had shifted. After Evan's disappearance, she'd hastened to Skyhold at Lana's behest, and delivered a personal missive to the spymaster. After that, it had amused her no end that it had simply been assumed, because she was apparently Evan's closest friend, that she would be part of whatever missions were to be sent out to find him.

Crappy environments notwithstanding, a life of adventure was something she could get used to.

 _Join the Inquisition, go places, meet interesting people, solve mysteries, kill things – try not to die_.

The "try not to die" bit cropped up fairly often. So far she'd put down a genlock, at least a dozen hungry dead, and had helped rout a swarm of demons a blood mage had thoughtfully summoned to distract them while he had attempted to make his escape.

If only her mother would see her now. Donna's half-brothers would hang onto every word of her exploits. Her step-father might be proud. Thing was, they hadn't responded to the letter she'd sent from Skyhold, and _that_ stung.

 _I'm being shunned._

 _Give it time_ , she almost imagined Merrim suggesting. At least her former mentor had replied to her communiques with pleasure that Donna had reached Skyhold, albeit by a circuitous route.

Ahead of Donna, Louhan held up a hand. Donna froze, and strained her hearing, her sense of smell.

Wood smoke. Which meant there was a camp ahead, though at present they were doing their best to melt through a thicket of gall-cherry or whatever it was that Louhan had said this plant was.

 _Bows ready_ , Louhan gestured then indicated that the two soldiers on their left peel off to get to the other side. Which meant they were close.

Donna strung her bow with deft fingers, nocked an arrow, and followed Louhan, now quite aware of the incidental noises ahead of them. Definitely an encampment and, judging by the clink of cutlery, folks were having their evening meal.

Louhan signed to Donna and Erin, as well as the others: A score or so of enemy. No sign of prisoners. _Not good_. They took up their positions, silent as ghosts, their green uniforms allowing them to blend into their environment.

From her hiding place, Donna had a view only of two of the sentries – Vints who, to their detriment, appeared bored, the one passing his companion a canister. The shorter, bald one, who looked as though he could do with a shave, had time to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when the signal came – the whistle of a tree frog, three times and pitched slightly lower than usual. Donna swallowed back her nerves, bow drawn.

It was a case of allowing her senses to narrow. The bigger one first. His chest provided the largest target, and she considered the placement of her arrow as she exhaled slowly. The first volley was in the air by the time she'd nocked her next arrow, her first target plucking at the feathered shaft that projected from his chest by the time Donna's second smacked into the short, bald one's neck.

Screams of pain, shouting from all around. A soft implosion of air and a gout of flame. Damn, they had mages among them… Or _a_ mage. There simply wasn't time for Donna to think too long and hard. Next target. And the next. She'd felled five men by the time it became clear that their little surprise attack had succeeded. Fifteen dead Vints. Two missing in action, presumed escaped, and six injured. They'd lost only Daryn – burnt to a crispy cinder by the mage.

"We did all right," Louhan said once Donna reached the encampment.

She tried not to watch as one of their own slit a surviving Vint's throat. They'd take no prisoners. Evan, where was he? Donna cast about the collection of tents.

Frith called out and waved them over to one of the tents. Donna's heart gave a little lurch and she nearly stumbled over a guy rope in her haste to investigate. There, lying as if dead, was a young male elf with skin so pale it was almost translucent. His long, ash-white hair was as fine as spider silk.

"He alive?"

Frith shrugged. "Dunno. I think he's drugged. Can't really tell. Louhan will have a better idea."

"He's obviously a prisoner," Donna said, and pointed to the elf's bound hands. "Maker's arse, they've used ropes strong enough to hold a bronto."

"Guess he qualifies as a prisoner, then," Frith quipped.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and Donna started.

Erin, a blond Dalish elf judging by the marks on her face, inclined her head toward a gateway formed by two pillars that may have once had an arch joining them. "Think you'd better come see this, Kovash."

 _Oh Maker no_.

She followed the elf along a path recently cleared from the underbrush, and had to suppress a small gasp of awe once they passed the stone pillars. Sunken into the forest was an amphitheatre similar to ones she'd seen in books about the ancient Tevene theatre. Curiously, it was relatively free of vegetation, unlike some of the tree-strangled ruins she'd seen so far. Rows of steps in a rough, circular arrangement faced the sunken half-circle of the orchestra. A jumble of soot-stained stones was all that was left of the skene.

But the blood. There was _so much._

That was not the worst of it. Figures had been raised on stakes. Eight, Donna counted.

Erin shook her head. "The poor bastards. Blood magic."

Donna wrinkled her nose. The air here smelled _burnt_ , for lack of better description. At this distance, it was difficult to discern details, and her heart thumped sickly as she grasped how utterly _still_ the eight figures were. Dead.

All this trouble, following all the leads she had, only to be too late. This was hardly fair.

Sheer exhaustion had her slump to her knees, shake her head in disbelief. "I'm too late," she whispered. The mere thought of breaking the news to Lana and Beren brought a strangled cry from her throat.

"Hang on a moment," Erin said.

Donna glanced up to see the elf descend the stepped seats of the amphitheatre two at a time. She frowned. Were here eyes deceiving her? Was one of the figures moving?

Donna leapt to her feet and followed as best she could – though she was hardly as graceful as the elf – and by the time she arrived at the orchestra, Erin was already helping a slight elven youth down.

She cast about, evaluating the other still forms on their stakes. "Evan!" she called and yes, there he was, nigh on unrecognisable coated in blood and grime.

Evan was still warm, and – Maker's breath! – he had a pulse.

"Evan! C'mon now!" Donna murmured as she cut him loose and cradled his body as he slumped onto the ground.

A miserable groan escaped him. "D-donna?"

"It's okay, you're safe," she whispered, and her vision blurred with tears. "I've found you." The hard knot of worry that had been lodged inside her all these weeks snapped, and she couldn't help the sobs that shook loose.

"You're okay."

Evan cracked a smile. "You sure took your time."

"Bollocks to you, you bastard," she said, and choked back a sob that wanted to be a laugh. "Don'tcha _ever_ do this to us again. You're a right royal pain in the butt, you know that?"

#

 _Earlier_ …

A peculiar resignation had stolen over Seith by the time the Venatori were done with their blood magic ritual and carried off the mysterious bundle they'd extracted from the blasted temple. This was it: the end. If it weren't for the fact that he was so drained, so damned tired, he would have tried again to escape.

How the blighted Venatori had found him, he still couldn't figure out. He'd been so careful. Unless it was just dumb bad luck. The days had passed in a blur as he and the other prisoners had been kept drugged up to their eyeballs while their captors had dragged them through the Arbor Wilds to Creators knew where.

The location wasn't any temple ruin he and his father had ever explored, and whatever blood magic ritual the Venatori had needed Seith and seven other unfortunates for had been so powerful, the very stones of what appeared to be an ancient tomb burst into flame and fractured.

When sounds of battle had reached his tired ears from beyond the amphitheatre, Seith had been too exhausted to think too hard on what was happening beyond his field of vision. He could feel himself slipping from awareness, drained, and whether he was going to sleep or die, it no longer mattered to him.

 _I never got to kiss someone... I never got to see other places… I never got to fall in love… I never rescued my mother…_

All vain regrets. He just hadn't expected that his own story would be cut short before he'd had a chance to live it. But then again, if he'd learned anything from his walking the Fade in dreams, it was that history was unkind. People died all the time, often tragically and amid much bloodshed.

Sleep would be good, and if he passed beyond mortal ken, then that was fine too.

Voices.

A shift in his bonds… they were coming back to finish them, weren't they?

Why was it so difficult to open his eyes?

The blond, grim-faced elf who was cutting him down had eyes so dark blue they were almost cobalt, with tiny flecks of aquamarine. The vallaslin of June marked her face. Dalish, here?

"You all right?" she asked.

"So...thirsty."

"You've lost a lot of blood. Can you sit up? I need to see who else yet lives."

Seith managed a nod and hunched over, rubbing life into his hands. The world spun alarmingly, and on the periphery of his awareness, he noted the movement of others dressed in the green of the Inquisition scouts. Unlikely rescuers, but then he'd have been grateful if darkspawn had showed up to cut them down. It would at least mean an opportunity to escape.

As it turned out, of the eight prisoners – sacrifices, for the blood magic ritual – only Seith, a blond human named Evan, and two other elves – one from Denerim and the other a slave from Miranthous – had survived.

Seith was certain they hadn't been picked at random, either, yet there didn't seem to be any reason why particular sacrifices had been chosen over others – and this bothered him. While it was clear that Mina, the city elf from Denerim, had some magical ability, as did Rinth, the erstwhile slave, the human, Evan, seemed completely non-magical.

The lady dwarf with the strawberry blond hair who fussed over the latter puzzled him. She was with the Inquisition forces that had rescued him but she obviously had history with the human.

Everyone was so kind to Seith and the other survivors, and helped them up to their erstwhile captors' camp. While the bodies were being moved away to be burnt, the dwarf – Donna, he learnt – tended to Seith and his fellows, bandaging the myriad cuts the blood mage's cruel blades had made. Every so often, he shuddered at some half-recalled, delirious memory from the ritual. Mercifully, his mind kept the full details locked away, though he feared that at some point he'd have to face what happened.

Some of his reserve towards the dwarf melted away, when he figured she had no ulterior motives. She seemed a genuinely kind individual, and she looked him in the eye when she spoke to him.

 _She speaks to you like you're an adult_.

Now _that_ left him nearly gaping in wonder. And not even a single "da'len" from the elves.

"What actually happened here?" Donna asked them.

Dark-haired Rinth shook his head and cradled his injured arms. His Tevene accent was pronounced. "I was...accompanying my master to the estate of some of his... fellows out in the countryside. Only after I'd had dinner with the other slaves ... I fell asleep. I think I was drugged. And when I … wake, I was stuffed into a cage and was being carted off to this place."

Mina added, "I was going to visit a friend of mine in the alienage. Normally I serve in the palace kitchens, but it was late, and we'd needed some herbs for a special dish early the next morning." She shook her head. "I don't understand…"

Donna frowned. "But you said you've got some magical ability… As does Rinth."

Mina blanched. "You're not going to have me sent to a Circle, are you?"

"Not at all," Donna said, holding out her hands.

Mina pressed her lips together and twisted at a lock of her brown hair that had come loose from its braid. "I've heard… stories."

Evan, the human, merely huddled in a blanket, and nursed the mug of tea he'd been given. Whatever _his_ history, Donna wasn't prying – but then again, she was his friend. She'd know already.

"And you, Seith?" Donna asked.

Here it came… "Um…" He shifted to make himself more comfortable on the log on which he sat.

Expectant gazes were turned in his direction, and he concentrated rather on the pebble he'd unconsciously picked up earlier, and was turning in his hands.

He couldn't tell them about Solas. _Especially_ not with the Inquisition soldiers present. Solas had found their initial attempts to find him after his departure after the defeat of Corypheus "amusing" as he'd been wont to put it. Point was if Solas didn't want to be found, he'd vanish. Which made Seith wonder that if he did experience a change of heart – not that he would – would he even be able to find his father again. He stored _that_ uncomfortable thought for later.

"I…" He grimaced. "I left home a few weeks ago," Seith said. If he kept his story close enough to the truth without revealing pertinent details, it would be more plausible. "And I … I had skirted round the edges of the Wilds when they took me." No need to say that he'd been _in_ the Wilds themselves.

"Any idea why?"

"I…" He may as well. "I have _some_ ability with magic. Both my parents are mages, but they're not aligned to any Circle."

Donna frowned in concentration, seemingly unruffled by his admission of apostasy. "They're after those who're either elf-blooded or have known magical ability… To power a blood magic ritual."

"That's how it would appear," Rinth said with a sneer. "My… Master found me useful for his workings. Said my blood was more potent than most."

"Who is the other elf who wasn't trussed up like you lot?" Donna asked.

Mina shrugged miserably, and huddled closer to Rinth, who for a moment glared at her then pulled his blanket around her shoulders.

Seith shook his head and searched his memories, which came up maddeningly absent. "I don't know." _What elf?_

"Me neither," said Rinth.

Evan responded, "I overheard them saying something about awakening an ancient priest. I don't think they were aware that I was listening in on them. I'd tried to escape so they'd beaten me, and at that point I thought it better to pretend to be out cold."

Seith grew cold. Awakening ancient priests? "The other…prisoner… Is he awake yet?" he asked.

Creators… _What_ sort of priest slept? Only ancient Elvhen, so far as he knew.

He rose. "Can I look in on him? Maybe I can help. I know some healing."

"Feel free," Donna responded.

His curiosity more than just a little bit piqued, Seith rose and hobbled over to the tent indicated. Seith lit a candle then entered. The elf was laid out like one already dead, but for the gradual rise and fall of his chest. His features were well formed, strong even. A long, straight nose and high cheekbones. Fine hair, unusually clean for someone apparently recently retrieved from a tomb.

Yet the vallaslin, etched in a red so dark it was almost black, was unlike any Seith had seen before. _Not Dalish. Not one of the existing pantheon._

The candle fell from his nerveless fingers and he cussed, picked it up before he accidently set fire to the camp. Piece by piece, what he knew threaded together. An elder Elvhen, asleep or imprisoned – possibly both – for millennia, awoken by blood magic ritual.

No good would come of this.

Seith backed out of the tent quietly, careful not to disturb the occupant.


	21. All roads lead to Skyhold, it seems

Chapter 21

9:59, late Kingsway

His name was Mihanin, and Donna had no idea why Seith appeared to be absolutely terrified of the elf once he awoke. To complicate matters, Mihanin didn't speak a word of the common tongue, and even the other elves in their party seemed a bit leery of him, because the dialect he spoke – as Erin had explained – was so archaic it was nigh on incomprehensible.

On the third night out from their rescue mission, as they approached the Dales, Mihanin vanished. They'd set up camp, allocated sentry duties, and yet in the morning, the strange elf was simply gone, and no one had witnessed his departure. His bedding and sundry supplies were missing too, but from what Donna gathered, Louhan and the others were secretly grateful that the sullen creature had deserted them.

 _Sullen creature_.

That really was the best way she could explain Mihanin's entire demeanour, and to be perfectly honest, Donna wasn't at all fazed that he'd elected to remove himself from their presence. It wasn't like the Inquisition was holding a dagger to anyone's throat forcing them to come along – though Leliana possibly would have wanted to question Mihanin. Something about his hollow, impenetrable glare had made her shrivel a little every time they'd made eye contact. As if she were somehow so unutterably beneath the elf's regard that she may as well have been a bug.

Donna shivered at the recollection. No. It was better that he was gone. The sooner they could forget about him, the better.

Evan, on the other hand, appeared to have made an about turn with regard to his attitude, and Donna couldn't quite figure out whether it was because he'd honestly re-evaluated his attitude or if he were so far out of his depth that he feared to tread on Louhan's toes. The lead scout, despite being a good head shorter than the others in their party, nevertheless demanded respect. Evan gathered wood, helped cook and strike camp without complaint, as if this were second nature to him. Then again, she supposed this sort of lifestyle wasn't new to him.

Fortunately, Donna was already well used to the punishing pace Louhan set as they travelled through the Dales, and they fell into an easy routine, rising at dawn and only making camp again late afternoon.

She took time to get to know the erstwhile prisoners, all of whom were amenable to a return to Skyhold for a debriefing before they decided where to move on from there. Rinth, for obvious reasons, was at odd ends, and Donna expected the former slave would possibly seek to join the Inquisition, much like Seith intended. The latter drew her attention more often than not. The fox-faced young elf kept to himself mostly, watchful of everyone and everything around him, as if he expected an enraged bronto to stampede out of the underbrush at any moment.

Yet it was Evan who surprised her that one evening in the Dales, when they'd gone out to collect firewood. The shadows were lengthening, and they'd been travelling down a wooded glen. Though the day had been warm, the wind that sighed through the pines bore an icy chill, no doubt directly off the Frostbacks' snowy heights.

She hadn't thought it odd that he'd volunteered to accompany her. More often than not, they'd shared various duties during the past week since the rescue, yet his mask of cheerfulness slipped from his face the moment they were outside of the camp.

"Donna…"

She paused in reaching for a branch then turned to face him.

Evan hugged his arms to his skinny frame – he had lost a lot of weight during his ordeal – and looked at her with beseeching eyes. "I… I don't know how to say this…"

"What?" Donna's pulse sped up. Was he apologising? "That you were a colossal idiot?" Maker's arse, had she actually just said that?

He hung his head, and when he looked up, tears were running down his cheeks.

Suspicion was her first response, oddly enough, but when he sat down on a nearby log and cradled his head in his hands, she reconsidered.

No one deserved what he'd gone through. No matter how callous and irresponsible they were. To ask him now whether he was all right when he so patently wasn't, would be terrible. To tell him to suck it up and grow a pair, would be even worse.

With a sigh she dropped her burden of wood then went to go sit next to him. Evan flinched when she put her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. He'd never flinched from any contact before.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked.

He hissed an exhalation, shook his head.

It didn't take her much to imagine what had happened. She'd pieced together as much from Mina that the Vint mage and his cohorts had _other_ uses for their victims before the ritual took place. And Evan had a pretty face. And pretty blond hair that some bastard would no doubt love grabbing a fistful of while … She shuddered. Better not to visit dark places.

So she did the best she could, and sat there next to him while he hunched into himself and sobbed silently. Presently, he straightened and wiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his too-big salvaged tunic.

"You're a better friend than I deserve, Donna-love," he whispered, his voice raw, as he stared off into the trees.

Would he have done the same for her? She doubted it, but bit her tongue. "I'm just glad that you didn't die, and that you're safe now. That is all. I'm not going to lecture you and tell you what a shit you were."

Evan's laugh was without humour. "I… If I am brutally honest, I wanted to die. I couldn't help but think how I'd let everyone down. My mothers. That if my … that if _others_ knew what had befallen me, they'd be sorely disappointed. It's amazing how facing death lends a person perspective. All the should-have-beens and could-have-beens."

"You've had your long dark teatime then."

"My what?"

Donna snorted in amusement. "Never mind the metaphor... A book I read. The author spoke about his life being like a long, dark teatime between an awful lunch and an unbearable dinner with dreadful people."

"Oh. I guess it kinda makes sense. Only I'm not sure what I want anymore. Not that I had a particularly great idea before they..." Evan sighed.

"Give it time," she said. For now, it was simply enough that they sat together, that neither of them was alone.

"What are you going to do now?" His question pierced her to her heart. That he cared what happened with her.

"I…" With her free hand, Donna fiddled with a loose thread hanging at the hem of her tunic. "I haven't really thought about that either. Merrim was right. I think the Inquisition wouldn't be a bad place for me. For now."

"What about your books?"

" _Pfff_ , I can write while I travel." Her father had written some of his best works while allegedly on Inquisition business. Anything to stave off the fact that her road still pointed towards Kirkwall, towards that meeting with her father she was oddly reluctant to conclude.

"Why don't you go see your father?" she asked Evan.

He straightened and pulled away from her. "They told you, didn't they?"

"It was unavoidable, all things considered." Damn her stupid mouth. She'd said the wrong thing.

"And that's why the Inquisition got involved, didn't they?" Evan's hurt soured his words. "They wouldn't have sent their scouts otherwise. I suspected as much."

"You could have told me sooner, perhaps?"

"What? And have you get all weirded out on me? That you wouldn't like me for me, and not because of –"

"I'd like to think I'm your friend, that you trust me enough."

"Andraste's tits, you are so naïve." He rose, brushed off his breeches and stalked off.

"Evan!" Donna called. "Talk to me, damn it!"

He didn't stop, didn't turn around, and she stood there, watching until she was alone among the trees, with only wind mourning through the boughs.

#

Seith hadn't meant to eavesdrop but he'd wandered after the pair on a whim and picked up the tail end of Donna's conversation with Evan, whose father was clearly someone of note. Enough for the Inquisition to get involved and send a rescue team. Interesting. His ears were burning. Figuratively speaking, that is. Dull realisation settled that if it hadn't been for Evan, Seith'd probably have bled out tied to a stake in the middle of a blasted ruin by now. Not important. Then again, the mere thought that he would've had to rely on his father for a rescue, now _that_ stuck in Seith's craw.

Donna's shoulders were hunched, and she looked so utterly defeated it made him uncomfortable. Should he approach her, offer kind words? What did one even say to someone who was a near-perfect stranger? Should he beat a quiet retreat so as to not discomfort her further?

Seith backed away gradually, but evidently not quietly enough, because Donna glanced up sharply and turned in his direction.

Seith pressed himself against the trunk of a pine and froze, hardly daring to breathe.

"I saw you, Seith. You can come out." Donna sounded weary.

Fenedhis. Awkward.

"Ir abelas," he murmured as he came out from his hiding place.

"Dare I ask how much you heard of that conversation?"

He cringed inwardly. "Enough, I think. But certainly enough to be grateful that however important your friend is, that I basically owe him my life." Because for whatever reason, this time there'd been no Solas to blaze in to the rescue. He grimaced.

"I'm sorry this all happened," Donna said.

"As am I. Now what?"

"Well, I certainly hope you'll keep whatever suspicions you have to yourself."

"I have enough secrets of my own," Seith said. "I don't need to draw attention to myself by peddling others'."

Donna snorted. "Isn't that a truth."

Though their friendship had a difficult start, when Seith looked back during the weeks that followed, that was where it started – with him and Donna having a wry conversation around the fact that each carried stories they couldn't share, and that they respected each other enough not to pry.

He was fine with that. Really.

Also, maybe, and perhaps more than just a bit maybe, he admitted he was starved for the easy companionship of someone closer to him in age. Donna was easy to get on with. She laughed. She told stories. Also, she hurt – that much Seith could see. She never mentioned her family and whatever schism had formed between her and Evan after that evening collecting firewood, her friend remained aloof.

Seith and Donna didn't have to talk about their hurt yet somehow having someone else share that silent companionship made the pain recede a bit.

He still took precautions to avoid Solas, spending an hour or so before going to sleep setting wards so that he could rest in a space cut off from the Fade. The lack of dreams was a small price to pay for his privacy, though his conscience nagged that he _should_ by all rights tell Solas about Mihanin and the unknown vallaslin. Yet to go crawling back to his father now… To admit that his flight had been ill considered and that Seith _had_ run into trouble after all. Now _that_ was too much.

Besides, he needed to conduct a bit more research of his own to find out more about Mihanin's vallaslin; imagine if he went to Solas with a discovery his father knew nothing about? Though in truth he knew he was being a fool for wanting his his father's approval. Yet… How much trouble could one ancient Elvhen, out of time, without any friends, wreak?

Their return journey to Skyhold took three weeks. By the time their party had reached a small farmstead in the Dales, they had been able to requisition horses, and though Seith hadn't sat on a horse's back since he left Skyhold, Donna was kind enough to stay close to him until he got the hang of things again. His opinion about the beasts declined greatly after the first day's sore muscles, which wasn't helped by his falling off the bad-tempered gelding he'd been given on four separate occasions throughout their journey. Not to mention the times the bastard creature swung its head around so it could nip at Seith's legs.

The day they arrived in Redcliffe, Donna grew especially quiet, and Evan even more withdrawn. It was also abundantly clear that Evan and Donna still hadn't patched things up after that conversation that Seith had accidentally eavesdropped. Even Erin remarked upon the moodiness of their party, but since it was early in the day still, Louhan pressed for them to pause only so long at the market to buy fresh supplies before she had them on the road leading up to Haven.

They camped that night in a lean-to that had clearly been set up for travellers. Judging from the neat piles of firewood, it was regularly supplied by the Inquisition. The shelter did little more than keep the worst of the sifting rain off them and the occasional cold drips of moisture added to their general low mood.

"It's Orlesian water torture, I tell you," Frith muttered when the umpteenth drop smacked her forehead.

Every mile that they traversed through the eastern foothills of the Frostbacks brought Seith closer to the reckoning he hadn't admitted to himself had preyed on his conscience as much as it had. Seith's stomach twisted itself into knots and he could barely eat, let alone sleep. The lack of rest didn't help his state of mind, and he imagined one awful scenario after the other, the worst being the Commander denying him and having him interred in the Skyhold prison on sight.

The further they ascended, the colder it became. The sky wasn't the deep blue he recalled from the better days – somehow the sun had always shone on his memories – and flurries of snow were driven against them. His extremities felt as if they'd drop off and not only was he cold, but he couldn't quite shake the damp either. The mountain peaks frowned down, the exposed rock dark where the icing of snow didn't quite reach. Skyhold proper, when it revealed itself, sent a thrill through him. The crenelated towers rose proudly from the heights and, even from this distance, he could make out the Inquisition banners snapping in the wind. People marched like ants, and further reinforced sheer scale of the ancient structure.

By the time they reached the snowfields, Seith _did_ quietly get sick. He'd hung near the back of the group and slid off his gelding so that he dash behind a rock. By the time he'd finished retching and had cleaned his mouth out with snow, Donna had found him, and had dismounted and led over her pony.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Actually, that's a really stupid question. You're not all right, are you?"

Seith leaned against the rock and pressed shaking hands to his eyes. He should tell the truth. It was going to come out sooner rather than later if he went through with this. _There's still time to run_ … He glanced down the track they'd followed so far.

"I've –" He drew a deep breath. The others had stopped. He felt terrible for making them wait. They all needed to get indoors as soon as possible. Hot food. A bed. Damn, even a hot bath would work.

Donna's expression displayed only concern. How would she respond once she knew? One thing he recalled from his childhood was how his father had been turned into a villain. Granted, he hadn't heard anyone so much as mention Solas during the past few weeks but that didn't mean that his reputation didn't linger like a foul taste.

"What?" Donna asked, frowning.

Seith wet his lips. "I… I guess I need to tell someone at some point. Might as well start with you."

Her dismay was obvious. "What?"

He shook his head, grabbed at his hair, which had come loose from its tie. Then he blurted, "My mother was the previous Inquisitor. Teniël Lavellan. My fath –" He choked. "My father is the one everyone goes on about as –"

"The Apostate," Donna finished for him. "Damn."

Seith struggled to breathe and half cringed, waiting for her to shout, say something horrid.

When she turned to the rest, she called, "Go on ahead. Seith's not feeling well. We'll follow."

He sagged in relief and Donna came to lean against the rock next to him, close enough without crowding him yet not so far that she gave the appearance of loathing him.

"I heard about you," Donna said. "Or should I rather say I _read_ about you. One of Varric Tethras's tales. The book's called _The Broken Orb_. He's apparently waiting to see how it will finish so he can write part two." She gave a rough laugh. "You know, this is really weird, but your father and mine… They knew… They were…" She shook her head. "I shouldn't be telling anyone about this but with you it just. It feels right."

She told him.

After they'd finished laughing – and crying – Seith realised something important. He was not alone. Donna had his back, and whatever happened once he set foot in Skyhold, he _would_ be all right. More than all right, in fact.


	22. The wind howls outside, where it belongs

Chapter 22

Skyhold, Late Kingsway

Donna hadn't meant to tell Seith – or anyone for that matter – who her real father was, but Seith had been so anguish-ridden over his revelation about _his_ father that her words had tumbled out against her better judgment. What had made her tell Seith, a near stranger, when she hadn't even told Evan? And yet… It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, because a weight had been lifted from her. Seith had not jeered or told her she was presumptuous for assuming that anyone would believe her far-fetched claim.

Somehow, by proxy, the two of them had shared a past through the epic doings of their parents, and that made them … Well, it made them family, in a way.

More than family, actually.

Seith was such a wee, delicate creature, even if he was a head or two taller than her, and she could only laugh at herself for the bizarre urge she felt to protect him, especially after he'd told her about some of the narrow scrapes he'd had. He spoke about Pride demons as if they were a natural occurrence – something to be endured, that was part and parcel of his existence. Now _that_ frightened her.

They entered Skyhold during the late afternoon, just as the flurries of snow began to thicken. By that stage Donna's extremities felt as if they were burning numb from the cold, yet she didn't hurry Seith along until it was quite clear that he'd gotten over the worst of his nerves. The elven youth kept the hood of his cloak up, however.

"It makes you look suspicious," Donna told him.

"At this point I'd rather appear suspicious than run into anyone I know before I've had a chance to find out whether I'm welcome," he replied.

"Duh, they already know you're coming. Louhan sent a bird. If you were such a security risk, don't you think the spymaster would've had a welcoming committee waiting to clap you in irons? Besides, if what you've told me about the Commander, he will be overjoyed to see you again," Donna reassured him as they led their mounts to the stables.

"We can only hope so."

All around them, folks hurried about yet most of the stalls in the marketplace were closed – the weather was that horrid. The soldiers were still drilling under the watchful eye of their instructor – an imposing woman with close-cropped black hair with touches of grey at the temples, who didn't seem at all bothered by the temperature.

Seith kept his gaze resolutely ahead of him as they passed the instructor, and hung back so that Donna's pony obscured him.

"Someone you know?" Donna murmured.

"That's the Inquisitor," Seith mumbled from behind her.

"Oh." Donna cut a glance in Inquisitor Pentaghast's direction, but the woman was so intent on her drilling that she didn't take note of the two weary travellers on their way to the stables. Donna hadn't dealt with anyone beyond the spymaster and Commander Rutherford the last two times she'd been here, and the Inquisitor had been away, in any case. Judging by the surety of her movements, the woman didn't seem like the kind of person _anyone_ would want to mess with.

One of the stable hands took their mounts, and Seith kept close to Donna, as if she could somehow shield him from everyone even though he was taller than her. They didn't have much in the way of gear – well, Seith didn't – and Donna led him to the barracks where she assumed they'd both be staying. There was no sign of the others but a messenger caught up with them here and passed on the word that they were to get a bite to eat at the kitchen then head straight up to see the spymaster.

"At least we'll have something to warm ourselves up," Donna remarked as they hurried along to the kitchen. "I could've done with a good soak, though."

The others were there, already finishing their meal by the time Donna and Seith arrived. Evan hardly glanced at her, which stung, because she'd hoped he would have unbent once they'd reached their destination. Yet he was wedged between two of the other Inquisition scouts, so Donna couldn't get near him nor could she catch his eye.

Then she got caught up in a lively discussion about nugs – of all things – with Rinth, and it was only when they all went upstairs for their debriefing, and each had to wait their turn for the spymaster, that Donna realised Evan had been called in first. Besides, poor Seith was so nervous again, so she spent most of the rest of the time reassuring him that the spymaster wasn't going to string him up.

For now, she was grateful for her full belly and that the cold wind was howling outside, where it belonged. Later, there'd be a tankard of ale with her name on it, and maybe a hand or two of Wicked Grace. There'd be time enough to smooth things over with Evan. She hoped.

Slowly, the knots of tension that had held her taut unwound, so that by the time she went in to see Leliana, she was almost her old self.

#

Leliana, against Seith's initial concerns, had been almost kind. Frankly, the spymaster scared him half to death, yet she wasn't angry. Thanks to the Creators for that. He'd hate to be on her wrong side. Solas hadn't trusted her, and that was one point he was willing to concede towards his father.

Leliana did, however, ask many questions. Some were similar to the ones she'd asked before. He bit back his anger. _You already know that_ , he wanted to yell.

Where is Solas? _I left him in the Arbor Wilds._

Why has he not sent word before that? _He has his reasons. I am not his keeper._

What has been doing? _Sleeping, poking about in ruins._ {Being a stodgy old fool.}

Why did _you_ not send word all these years? _I was afraid I'd be sent to a circle._

Have you learnt to control your magical abilities? _Yes._ {Mostly, but you don't need to know that.}

Are you a danger to the Inquisition? _No_. {There is always a risk, but we won't speak of it.}

What do you think the Tevinter mage was intending to summon? _I am not sure._ {I'm sure as hell not going to discuss _that_ with you, you nosey bitch.}

Who is this Mihanin? _I don't know._ {Trust me, you _don't_ want to know. I'm not even sure _I_ want to know.}

Why are you here? _I have news of my mother_. {Ha! You weren't expecting that, were you?}

For a moment, the spymaster flinched, sat back in her chair. Ravens shifted on their perches, restless. Then Leliana's mask slipped back in place and she straightened.

"What can you tell me?"

Savage glee awakened in Seith's heart. Leliana and Teniël had been close. Very close, if Solas's recollections were to be believed. If Seith could get Leliana on his side…

"What do you know of temporal displacement in the Fade?" he asked.

Her brow crinkled. "That sounds more like it would be Dorian Pavus's purview."

"My father…mentioned there was an occasion in the past where the Tevinter mage helped my mother bypass a possible outcome that Corypheus had planned, that would have seen my mother simply erased from the timeline by one called Alexius, and that this reality had had catastrophic consequences for all. Which leads me to believe that my mother attempted some action when she was searching for my father that resulted in a backlash. She may have triggered some sort of ancient artefact, I don't know." Wow. He sounded like Solas now. He grimaced.

"But then surely your father would want to help? Why approach the Inquisition?"

Seith's bitterness made him grind his teeth before he spoke. "My… Father… For whatever reasons he possesses, seems less than enthusiastic to do anything to aid her." He wanted to say so much more, and it was with great difficulty that he resisted the temptation. The last thing he needed right now was for Leliana to think of him as a child.

"Hmmm, dissension in the ranks," she mused.

"It's not quite what you think," he gritted out. "There are no ranks."

"Yet you left him, were on your way to seek aid from the Inquisition. Are you sure there is nothing else you could share?"

"I fail to see what the Inquisition would find so fascinating about us having spent the past decade grubbing about in ancient Elvhen ruins."

Leliana gave a short, sharp laugh. "Oh, you'd be surprised what's turned up once you start 'grubbing about' in the ancient Elvhen ruins, as you put it. Things like old swords, arrowheads… orbs… even _mirrors…_ " She arched a brow at him.

Eluvians, of course. There'd been five that they'd found, two during the past year. All broken.

She gazed at him evenly. He couldn't lie.

"We haven't found any functioning Eluvians," he said then made a show of examining his dirty fingernails, because he could no longer endure her regard.

"So Solas _is_ looking for Eluvians then." It wasn't a question.

"Perhaps. He doesn't discuss what he's looking for with me. Or rather he didn't."

"What else did you find?"

Seith looked up, but focused his attention on a point in the middle distance, slightly to the left of Leliana's face. "Stuff. Broken things. Nothing that worked anymore. And no explanations for how any of it all fits together." He allowed his frustration to creep into his tone. Let her believe that he was just some vassal of his father's, kept in the dark – which was mostly true.

She continued studying him, thoughtful. His skin grew cold and clammy in patches, and he was aware of sweat trickling down his ribs from under his armpits.

A fierce gust rattled the windowpanes. A messenger approached the table, whispered in her ear and slipped a roll of paper into her hand. She glanced at the scrap then looked up at him.

"You'd best go see Commander Rutherford then. He's in his tower room. I expect you have much catching up to do. I will call for you later once I've an opportunity to mull things over. I will, however, in the meanwhile, send word to Dorian Pavus. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear of your safe return. Try to stay out of trouble." She smiled, but there was little warmth in it. "I've arranged to have your… nemesis... sent on an errand to Redcliffe for the meanwhile, but he'll be back in a day or so." She could only mean Delon. _He was still here?_

Seith let out a hiss of relief and nearly took a tumble as he found his feet. "Thank you!" He hated how childish he sounded, but he suspected giving her the impression that he was just a gangly youth was perhaps the more prudent course to follow.

Leliana waved him off and he hurried downstairs and into the library. The familiarity of the space washed over him so heavily he nearly wept. No one looked askance of him in his travel-stained clothing – he was just one more Inquisition agent or guest passing through.

A pang of nostalgia had him approach a seat in one of the alcoves, where he could peer out through the little diamonds of glass at the dull evening. Then he headed down yet another flight of stairs that brought him into the part of the rotunda that Solas had made his own.

The blankness of the walls robbed him of volition for a moment.

 _Gone_.

His father's murals had been covered in a coating of paint. Green paint. White trimmings. Fancy Orlesian lamps flickering golden light. Several desks had been placed in a rough semi-circle. More bookshelves lined the walls and a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth.

Two young circle mages glanced up from their work at one of the desks – clearly busy with some form of research – then they busied themselves again with their scribblings. He supposed to them he appeared as a servant, someone beneath their notice. No one of importance, at any rate. He hurried along to the door that led to the battlements, unaccountably short of breath.

Erased.

What had he expected? That they'd leave the chamber as a shrine? Fenedhis, why did this hurt so much? For that matter, why did Cullen insist on remaining in that damned tower when he could no doubt command a better suite of rooms inside the castle proper?

The cold wind shrieked and buffeted him as he hurried along the battlements, his borrowed cloak pulled tightly against him. It still struck him as bizarre that he'd returned, after all these years. To think that the last time he'd walked here he'd been a wee sprite of a thing.

Soldiers nodded at him as he passed them by. Did they know who he was? Did it even matter?

When he reached the door, he had to drag in several deep breaths before he'd summoned the courage to knock.

"Enter!" came the muffled response from within.

He could run... There was time.

Seith pushed against the door, which after all these years still stuck in its frame at the same spot. The interior was almost exactly as he remembered it save that there were more shelves overflowing with books. The couches by the hearth were as ratty as ever, though the throws were newer, less worn. Cullen's desk was still mostly covered in its usual haphazard scattering of documents. Nothing much changed there.

The man himself had half-risen as Seith entered, perhaps paler and more drawn than Seith remembered. His hair was longer too, brushing his shoulders, and he no longer wore his armour.

Sick, Seith realised. And old.

The Commander stumbled and Seith rushed forward to help him.

"Oof! I'm fine!" Cullen said as Seith grabbed his arm and placed a steadying hand on his back.

However, he was not fine. Seith could tell that by feeling how thin the man's wrist was, the way is shoulder blades protruded.

"I came back," Seith said, even if this simple statement was lame, unnecessary.

Cullen held him at arm's length, his grip firm as he gazed at Seith in wonder. "You've grown."

Seith's face grew warm. "A little."

"Well, your mother was always petite. You look more like her than…"

"I know. He told me."

"Then you found him."

Cullen hugged Seith fiercely then, and though Seith found the close contact unfamiliar, it was oddly comforting even if the man had a tremor to him he'd not had before. These were the self-same arms that had carried him when he was little – the father he should have had, had things played out differently. In a reality where he would've been merely the elf-blooded brat of the Inquisitor, and not the spawn of the dread Apostate who'd been the cause of Teniël's downfall.

"Come, let's sit by the fire," Cullen said as he let go.

"You're … Not well," Seith said.

"I never quite got over the lyrium withdrawal," Cullen said, moving towards the hearth. "I've wanted to resign but Cassandra won't hear of it. Says I have a brilliant mind that shouldn't be allowed to rot away through inactivity. I at least don't see active duty anymore." He sank wearily into the couch. "We are, I guess, blessed that things have been stable since Corypheus. Or, rather, as quiet as they can be with the Qunari on one side and Tevinter on the other, all slavering like mad dogs barely restrained on leashes. For how long –" He grimaced.

"Are you in pain?" Seith asked.

"It comes and goes. The cold weather exacerbates it. Go over to the sideboard there and pour us some wine." The firelight played in the hollows of the man's cheeks.

Wordlessly, Seith obeyed, and poured them each a goblet. The wine was tart and dry, and he took a small sip once he'd settled on his seat opposite his erstwhile foster-father.

Seith's helplessness in this situation roiled within him. That this good man, who had given so much – all the best years of his life – would be reduced to this shadow of himself.

The Commander offered a wry smile. "Don't feel bad about this, lad. There's nothing to be done about it. If I had the choice I would have given up the lyrium all over again. I'd rather live free for a short while than be a slave for ages."

"But you're _dying_."

"We're _all_ dying. Some just faster than others. I've made my peace with the Maker, and by His will I'll have a few more years yet."

Seith couldn't help but scowl at the unfairness this entire situation stirred. Couldn't Cullen have had _some_ happiness during these past few years? "Surely one of the mages could…"

Cullen shook his head. "We've looked into various options. Believe me."

Seith sucked in a deep breath to stop himself from saying something ill considered. As it was, his face was hot – with shame and sadness. "I've only just come back…"

"Don't blame yourself for anything. I'm glad to see you again, glad that you're safe. When we received word that you'd been found, I hardly dared to believe it to be true. That is more than enough cause for joy to make up for the years of not knowing."

Seith regretted then that he'd told Leliana about Teniël Lavellan. Seeing Cullen so ill and tired made him wonder whether it wouldn't have been more of a kindness to have kept that snippet to himself and gone about his enquiries discreetly. Yet at the time, under the spymaster's gaze, he'd found himself overwhelmed by the urge to come clean on that one point. Whether Cullen heard the news from Seith or Leliana first was up to Seith now, and he already knew that it would be cruel to not say anything now.

"I suppose Leliana has already shared the circumstances under which we were found?" Seith ventured.

"We received a bird a week ago, yes. The matter was brought up at our War Table."

Seith's mouth grew dry. "There is something else I need to tell you then. Something only Leliana knows, since I've told her, but I'd rather you heard it from me before anyone else."

Cullen's eyes brightened instantly, which only served to drag a razor over Seith's heart. This was going to hurt...

 **Author's note:** Yes, I'm an a** leaving you here.


	23. Flaming Antivan Nipples, and then some

Chapter 23

Skyhold, Late Kingsway

The ale was every bit as good as Donna had hoped – cold, bitter and laden with hops – and she downed half her tankard in a few swallows then set it down on the table.

Across the table from her, Erin sipped her ale and crinkled her nose. "You're going to get drunk."

"That's the idea," Donna said with a smug grin.

The blond elf shook her head, took another dainty sip.

"Your ale's gonna be warm by the time you're done."

Erin offered a one-shouldered shrug. "I'd like to avoid the obvious after-effects of too much ale the morning after the night before."

"It's gonna take more than a few pints to lay me low," Donna said.

"Said she who hasn't had a pint in what … five weeks."

"Six. You forget that our dwarven constitutions are far more, how shall I put it, _robust_ than the wee, delicate flowers of the Dalish."

Erin sniffed and offered a moue of mock-disdain, before taking another maddeningly small sip.

The Herald's Rest was packed to the eaves, and Donna and Erin had struggled to find a half-decent place to sit. They'd ended at the end of a table, up on the mezzanine, next to Sera's room, where there was a bit of a draught coming in through a chink in the window. Unfortunately the legendary archer's door was locked, and word had it that she was out accompanying the equally legendary Sutherland crew. Damn. Donna was dying to meet her, even if Sera was as foul-mouthed as everyone said she was. She had missed her the last time she was at Skyhold.

"What's next?" Erin asked.

"Not sure," Donna said. "I haven't really thought about it." Actually her thoughts had been whirligigs these past few weeks, driven into a frenzy ever since they'd reached Skyhold.

What next? Truth be told she'd been so focused on saving Evan's arse she hadn't considered the big "what next". Kirkwall? She'd have liked to return to Lothering with Evan – surely he'd return to his family to reassure them that he was all right – but as things currently stood between them that particular course of action wasn't likely.

She could visit Redcliffe and see her own family but while she'd been away, there had been no word sent, which meant she was still being shunned. And shit, _that_ hurt.

"What are _you_ doing next?" Donna asked Erin. It was better to deflect.

Erin offered her usual tight smile. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it's classified."

"Oh, aye."

This served as further reminder that Donna was at loose ends because she wasn't _actually_ part of the Inquisition. She was just a random field agent who'd completed her one and only mission, and was now flapping about in the breeze like a loose sail.

"I'm sure Louhan can put a good word in for you with the Commander," Erin added. "You were sort of fun to have around. For a dwarf, that is." She winked.

"Gee, thanks," Donna said, in a mock-sour tone.

"No, seriously. We'll be leaving in a day or so. That's all I know so far. Possibly for warmer climes, it's been suggested."

"I have a really good idea what warmer climes suggests, and trust me, I have no desire to get sand in my smallclothes."

"Tsk, it's not so bad." Erin smirked.

"Really?"

Music started downstairs, and Donna's heart plunged. She got up and peeked over the railing and sighed a breath of relief. The performer was a brown-haired human woman. Not Evan. Donna didn't know whether to be sad or relieved. Her suspicions told her that it would be a while before Evan felt up to performing again. For that matter, where was he?

She returned to her seat.

"You're looking glum all of a sudden," Erin said.

Donna chugged back the remainder of her ale then eyed the empty tankard. "I know. It's a tragedy. My tankard appears to have a hole in it, and I do believe it's a certain elf's turn to purchase the next round."

Erin scowled, but she rose and went downstairs anyway, just as the bard downstairs broke into a heart-wrenching variation of "The Wanderer's Heart". Donna found her eyes growing misty despite her intentions not to become maudlin, which wasn't helped by someone plonking himself down in Erin's recently vacated seat.

"Didn't expect to see you here, of all places," the dwarf said.

Donna started with a hiss. "Fiann!"

And damn, if something inside her didn't purr with appreciation to see him again. His hair was pulled back in a messy tail and he possibly hadn't shaved in a week, but there were those damned dimples again.

He pressed a hand to his chest. "The one and only. Would the fair lady allow the roguish adventurer buy her a drink? She is looking rather thirsty."

"Um, I'm already with someone," Donna said. "She's just gone downstairs now." She immediately wanted to slap herself in the face. "Damn, that came out all wrong. I'm here with a friend but I'm sure it's all right for you to sit with us." Her face grew warm.

Fiann flashed her a smile then shifted onto the bench next to her, close enough that she could smell that particular woodsy scent she recalled from the last time she'd hung out with him.

"I thought you were headed through to Val Royeaux," he asked.

"Slight change of plans," Donna said. Maker's balls, now she had to figure out how much to say about what she'd been doing during the intervening months. "Something came up."

"Evidently."

"A friend ran into some … trouble, so I had to …" Donna cursed inwardly as her words dried up. Fiann's gaze was far too attentive.

"It's a long story," she finished.

"Well, the last time I checked, we still had a few hours before midnight…"

"No, really. I don't want to dredge all the dirty details out of the ditch. I had a problem that was of interest to the Inquisition. They spread their net and I went out with one of their teams and we found a solution."

His smile didn't falter. "Surely retrieving the bastard get of the king of Ferelden was far more exciting than that?"

Donna could only gape at him. "That information is –"

"Classified, I know. But you forget, I _do_ have my connections." He waggled his eyebrows. Damn that smile.

"What _don't_ you know?" Donna asked.

"Why the natural daughter of a certain notorious, incorrigible rogue and renowned author doesn't get her gorgeous, shapely ass to Kirkwall to meet her father."

Donna shut her mouth with an audible snap of teeth. It felt as if he'd punched her in the gut with those words. "Hhhh…" What she'd intended to say died in a quiet, drawn-out whine.

"How did I know?" He seemed far too proud of himself. "Did you honestly think that our beloved spymaster _doesn't_ do a spot of digging if she's dealing with new agents? It didn't take me long to ask the right questions of the right people."

"You're not going to _tell_ him, are you?" Donna asked in a small voice. Her skin had gone cold and hot, then freezing, and she had to hold onto the table for fear of toppling over. The ale she'd drunk threatened to fight its way back up her throat. How many others knew? Did this mean Varric already knew? What if he didn't want to have anything to do with her?

Erin chose precisely that moment to return, and set two tankards on the table hard enough to splash foam on the scarred surface.

"Oi, is this one bothering you, ladypants?" Erin asked.

"Ooh, it's the Dalish blossom." Fiann beamed up at the blond elf. "Just to let you know, those scratches did heal up nicely. Thank you for asking."

Erin blushed so heavily Donna momentarily forgot her own discomfort long enough to start laughing.

Erin sniffed delicately then sat opposite them, and took a deep draught of her tankard before setting it down so she could glare at Fiann. "You are a –"

"Charming devil, I know," Fiann finished for her.

Donna shook her head. "I'm not even going to ask."

"Whatever it is you think happened, it didn't quite happen the way you think it might've," Erin said.

"I'm not asking," Donna said then choked back laughter.

Fiann looked far too pleased with himself as he snaked his hand over to her ale.

Donna grabbed her tankard from him before he could raise it to his lips. "Go get your own."

"The lady doth wound me so," he said as he rose. "And shall I get another round for these two damsels?"

"I'm going to regret this," Erin muttered.

What was supposed to have been three or four rounds of ale, soon turned into six, plus three shots each of Flaming Antivan Nipples. Or at least that's what Donna thought Erin said she'd made Fiann fetch. Silently, she blessed Erin's presence, because it meant that she didn't have to discuss certain topics with Fiann, whom she hoped would keep his trap shut about what he knew. For all she knew, a bird was already winging its way to Kirkwall.

They were joined by others Donna didn't know, then someone brought out a deck of cards, and before she knew it, she'd somehow won a pile of money. The outrageous way Fiann was losing made her wish they'd been playing for clothes.

 _He's letting you win_ , her suspicion whispered.

Yet that didn't matter. She was laughing, and it felt as if the weight she'd been carrying around with her these past few weeks had lifted. Dimly, she was well aware she'd have a raging hangover the following day, but that didn't matter either. What was important was that she was surrounded by people – some of whom had saved her life in a tight spot (thank you, Erin) – and others who made her wonder if there was indeed something more to look forward to. _Damn you, Fiann._

Small clues hinted at the growing warmth between them, the way his fingers sometimes brushed hers on the table while they picked up or dropped cards, or how he'd catch her eye and wink. Fiann sat next to her and whenever their thighs brushed, it felt as if small shocks travelled up her spine.

How she later ended up on the battlements in the bone-shattering cold shortly before dawn, Donna couldn't really put together. A walk to clear the head. That was it. To talk in private about everything and nothing. Yet it was she and Fiann. Alone. Her pulse was a stampeding halla.

The wind had died down and the shroud of cloud cover had parted to let through the stars. Only one of the moons was visible, round as a silver coin and sinking rapidly behind the mountains, and the snow-bedecked peaks blazed with a kind of ethereal glow.

Fiann pointed up at a particular part of the sky. "That's … that's Tene-thingie. Oh never mind. It's supposed to be an owl but it was also supposedly a whatsit."

"Tenebrium," Donna supplied, laughing. "And it's been written in some older texts that it's a dragon."

"And that one over there is Servinani."

"The chained man, Servani," Donna said. "And if we don't get off these battlements soon you're going to be the frozen dwarf.

He'd insisted that she wear his cloak, as she'd somehow left hers behind in the Herald, and she could feel him shiver against her, because he'd gotten his arm around her and pulled her against him. The solid warmth of him had ignited a corresponding heat deep inside her. How must it feel to have someone special, who wanted to be in one's space?

"You're awfully clever," he said.

"The emphasis on 'awfully', I'd bet," Donna responded drily.

"Nothing like that." A moment of watchful silence grew between them, Fiann's expression turned suddenly serious, as if he was bursting with some sort of dire revelation.

"I don't say this to all the ladies I meet, but I really, _really_ like you, Donna Kovash. Ever since Lothering, I've kept wondering about you. Hoping our paths might cross again. Maker, that sounds so corny." He shook his head.

She wanted to protest, that it was the ale talking, that he'd regret his admission once the sun had risen, but her response died on her tongue when he leant closer and kissed her. The pressure of his lips on hers was soft, insistent, the slight rasp of his stubble on her skin unfamiliar but not wholly unpleasant. He tasted of the bitter ale had been drinking, and the slight cinnamon remnants of the shots they'd done. His tongue teased against the seam of her lips, and she wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

That warmth within her flared, and she dared to turn, so her back was against the wall and she could pull him closer, feel the entire length of his body pressed against her. Yet Fiann broke away, his breath short as he leaned over her.

His grin shone white in the moonlight. "You've never been kissed before, have you?"

"Well, are you going to brag about being my first or are you going to teach me then?" she returned, even as her face was aflame with the mortification.

"I would never dream of denying the gracious lady her request."

#

The wind had dropped by the time Seith left Cullen's rooms. The Dread Wolf alone knew how long they'd spoken, but they'd each had three glasses of wine and his thoughts were spinning. Too many intervening years had passed – lost years – yet Seith felt grimly pleased that he'd spent time with his foster-father. Even if Cullen's resignation to his condition made Seith grind his teeth.

Cullen had taken the news with regard to Teniël better than Seith had expected. Then again, he hadn't been sure quite how the man would have reacted. As it was, he'd made plans – get Dorian to come investigate again, perhaps spread his net a little further. Cullen had no doubt that between Seith and Dorian they could find a solution.

They did not speak about Solas. So far as Cullen was concerned, the Apostate did not feature in this epilogue of the Inquisition's continued saga. Yet he could hear the desire for closure in Cullen's voice. _This last thing I have to do,_ hung between the words.

Now _that_ chilled him.

"I'll find a cure," Seith had insisted.

Cullen shook his head, laughed. "If you must."

He didn't believe.

Thing was, Seith didn't either, but he wasn't about to fail for the lack of trying. If he could somehow bend reality to suit his needs, that would be enough. Without the usual backlash of his crazier magic.

So he hurried along the battlements, deep in thought, and hardly paying the sentries nor the dwarven couple cuddling up on one of the lookout points much attention. His feet guided him to one other place he must see before he took his rest.

Seith felt it now – the herb garden was nested within an enchantment so deep, so old that the magic radiated from the very stones. Elvhen magic. How come he'd never noticed this before? At this hour, the place was pretty much deserted, except for a sleepy sentry pacing the length of the ambulatory. Apart from a nod, the human man continued his measured beat, boot soles whispering on the worn stone.

The air was warmer here – enough that some of the chill left his bones. Embrium, royal elfroot, blood lotus... He rattled off the names as he brushed fingers against foliage, paused to sniff at lightly bruised leaves. Yet he knew exactly where he was headed without looking.

Teniël's statue seemed smaller than what he recalled even if the sculpture was slightly larger than life size. Over the intervening years, it had gathered a fine spattering of grey, lace-like lichen. Blind stone eyes stared up at the stars, and he couldn't help but reach out and place a hand on her shoulder.

He returned to that snatched moment in the Arbor Wilds, when he'd almost touched her, almost found a way to free her.

"I'm going to find a way to save both of you," he vowed. "I may not be able to fix the past, but I can damn well try to make our future better." His words sounded childish to his ears, but he didn't know what else to say.


	24. Of Lost Temples and Forgotten Whispers

Chapter 24

Skyhold, Late Kingsway

"Ow, ow, ow," Donna moaned at the breakfast table.

"You did it all to yourself," Seith said. "I really don't feel sorry for you. Especially not since you came drunk-stumbling in shortly before cockcrow."

"Hey, it wasn't that late."

"Early, you mean," Seith responded. " _And_ you just about broke your neck falling over Erin's boots."

"She left those out on purpose."

He couldn't help but grin cheekily at her; her waxen complexion wasn't the only one among their group. Truth be told, he didn't feel too hot himself after three glasses of Cullen's wine the night before, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone. He sipped at his tea, and grimaced at the bitterness. Filthy stuff, but it would settle his stomach.

The mood in the hall was generally cheery, with folks coming and going from their places at the trestle tables. He marvelled anew at the level of organisation that kept so many hundreds of people fed and clothed daily – month in, month out – but then again, the population at Skyhold shifted constantly, with folks coming and going. It was like a giant ant's nest or a bee hive.

After years traipsing through ruins with only his serious, somewhat morose father for company, it felt odd to be surrounded by people of all races and dispositions trading banter and laughing. What he appreciated most was the relative anonymity he had within the crowd. He was no one special here – unless someone recognised him – and, oddly, he drew comfort from the idea. So long as Delon remained unseen. He suppressed a shudder.

"Ah, just the people I'm looking for," said a man.

Seith twisted round as a dwarf plonked himself down next to him in the space recently vacated by one of their other companions. He was quite dapper, his dark hair pulled back in a tight queue and his face freshly shaved – looking more like he was suited for an audience with royalty than mere breakfast in the Great Hall, down to the dark green coat he wore.

"Hi, I'm Fiann Drazek." He reached a hand out to Seith.

Bemused, Seith shook Fiann's hand. "Seith." The dwarf's grip was firm, and Seith pulled back as soon as politeness permitted.

Meanwhile, Donna's smile was shy, and she'd flushed a little. Seith connected the dots – so _that_ was the dwarven couple he'd seen the night before.

"Oh," he said, glancing between the two.

Donna's blush deepened, yet Fiann continued as if he were completely unaware of their dynamics. "I'm glad I could track both of you down here this morning. I have a little bit of a business proposition for both of you, if you care to join me somewhere a little, less...public after breakfast."

Seith blinked at him. "I don't even know you, dwarf. What possible interest could you have in me?" He groaned inwardly. This could only mean that others had been clued in with regard to his past.

Fiann's pleasant demeanour didn't falter. "Your, ah, how should we put it … reputation on having a unique perspective on the remnants of certain civilisations has preceded you."

"You spoke to Leliana, in other words," Seith said flatly.

"Seith!" Donna interjected.

He shot her a pained look. "I didn't come here to have my father's reputation catch up with me in this manner."

"You know it was unavoidable." She shrugged. "Might as well deal with it."

It was his turn to feel a blush steal up his cheeks. He huffed. "I'm _well_ aware of that. But I was enjoying my tea until we were so rudely disturbed." He glared at Fiann.

The dwarf merely chuckled. "Well, come meet me up at the spymaster's once you're done." He patted Seith's shoulder lightly then got up. "Donna, I'm sure you'll be interested in what we'll have to share."

Seith caught the wink Fiann aimed at Donna before he left.

"That dwarf is trouble." Seith glowered at Donna.

"And you're not?" She fanned herself with a hand. "Is it me or is it just too warm here."

Seith continued glaring at her.

"If you keep scowling like that, the wind's gonna blow and set your face like that," she quipped.

#

The spymaster wasn't present in her tower, but Fiann had taken over a desk not far from where Leliana usually held court. He and Louhan were bent over a map when Seith and Donna approached. Donna's pulse raced and her breakfast had turned into a brick in her stomach. She had never imagined Fiann as anything _but_ the slightly shabby adventurer he claimed to be. Yet here he was, looking as if he'd just gone to see the Orlesian emperor. Then again, so far nobody was quite what they appeared to be since she'd left home. Maybe he _had_ been to see someone important. Maybe the Inquisitor. Excitement warred with trepidation. That Fiann was interested in _her_ – Donna Kovash – as a woman, romantically so, was oh so apparent. Just what she was going to do about this suave, smooth-talking male was quite another.

"Ah, there the jolly miscreants are!" Fiann called out then beckoned them over. "Come, come take a look."

Seith hung back, keeping Donna between him and Fiann.

Louhan smiled in greeting, tucked a piece of ash blond hair behind her ear, but then continued tracing the markings on the map while murmuring under her breath.

"What've we got here?" Donna asked. Might as well be upfront. It took her a moment to figure out that the map depicted part of the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes. All the notations were in Tevene script, but someone had inked in the trade tongue translations in neatly printed letters.

"This," Fiann said, "is my next adventure, which has, this morning, just received the blessings of the Inquisition in addition to its full support." He pointed at a small, red dot that was about far west that one could go without falling off the map. "Imagine our surprise when scouts reported the discovery of ancient ruins. Unlooted, possibly unexplored ruins. These are situated in a dry river valley so isolated it's first described in the journal of Amanthius the Explorer some time during the third Blight. He writes of it as 'a peculiar outcrop, possibly dwarven made'. Naturally when a trader was recently intercepted, who claimed to have discovered an artefact at a supposed as of yet unexplored ruin, we took notice." He pushed an object across the table towards Donna and Seith.

Next to her, Seith gasped. "That's Elvhen script."

The object was a flat piece of metal, about a finger thick and, judging by its jagged edges, clearly a fragment of something bigger. Interesting.

"May I?" Seith asked.

Fiann nodded.

The elven youth picked up the piece and turned it over while he examined it closely. Then he made eye contact with Fiann. "This basically says something about a wall, but there's not enough to go on to finish. Were there any more?"

"Unfortunately not. Which is where I come in. My speciality is archaeological research, with emphasis on ancient devices. Over the past three years I've been working with the Inquisition on an ad hoc basis in collaboration with a privately funded initiative that operates out of Kirkwall to research objects of interest. Blah, blah, blah, it's a mouthful I know. That's the official story. Basically, I'm a curious kind of dwarf who likes poking his nose into place where it doesn't belong.

"So far we've built up a considerable body of work detailing the mechanical and chemical components of certain ancient artefacts, with view to contemporary applications. Everything as simple as better locking mechanisms on doors to the workings of trebuchets, or even the finest clockwork gears, we're interested. Specifically also within areas of the magical arts, and the unique combinations of these discoveries. But, to simplify, I am putting together a team. I'd like the both of you to be part of this."

Seith's eyes glittered with poorly disguised excitement, and although Donna was wildly flattered by Fiann's invitation, she was nonetheless suspicious.

"Is this because you've taken a personal interest in me? Or is it because I actually have something to contribute to this expedition?" she asked.

"We need someone who would be willing to maintain our journal, with view to eventual publication," he responded. "I have it on good authority that you're something of an author?"

Her face grew warm. What did he _not_ know about her? "Surely there are others who're eminently better suited to this position than I am?"

"Will it make you feel better to know that it's also because Louhan here has vouched for your effectiveness when it comes to tense situations? This is not going to be a stroll through some fancy Orlesian park filled with water features and floral bowers." He stubbed an index finger over the offending spot on the map. "Here be dragons and some such." Fiann arched a brow.

"Dragons?"

"Well, figuratively speaking, of course."

"I saw a young drake in the Arbor Wilds not so long ago," Seith added.

"That's the Arbor Wilds," Fiann responded. "The Maker alone knows what we'll find _there_. Fortunately we have a good idea of what sort of wildlife we'll discover in the Hissing Wastes"

Seith snorted, shook his head.

"How long is this expedition going to take?" Donna wasn't convinced, yet a small measure of excitement stirred in her heart. High adventure, romance … what more could a woman ask for?

"Possibly four weeks out there, if all goes well. Then we'll have supplies set up for a fortnight reconnaissance. Then, pending discoveries, we'll either return, or see whether it's feasible to extend for another week or two. It's going to be fun." He beamed at them, so full of good humour, Donna felt some of his excitement bite.

"So we'd be back just before spring then," Donna said after doing the sums. Winter. In the desert. Bitter nights and scorching days. She shrugged mentally. It could be worse. "And pay?"

He named a figure. She whistled. It was a considerable amount of money. Enough for her to rent rooms somewhere so she could focus on writing her next novel. Perhaps travel to Kirkwall.

"Of course we'll talk about the publication of the journal as an extra," Fiann said.

Seith spoke. "And you're aware of the fact that you're dragging a known apostate along on this mission, right?"

Fiann merely raised a brow. Next to him, Louhan snorted softly.

"When has that ever stopped the Inquisition?" Fiann said.

Seith scowled. "You forget, they were only too happy to pack me off to a circle when I first showed signs of magical ability."

"I'm assuming that since you've yet to succeed in blowing yourself into smoking cinders, that your father has had some measure of success in teaching you?" Fiann inclined his head. "Besides the fact that you could glance at the fragment and tell me something useful – that alone qualifies you for this more than a dozen elderly scholars who can barely string together a sentence after a month of study."

"Yes… well…" Seith murmured. "I'm just… Not used to being … useful." He kept turning the artefact over, not meeting anyone's gaze.

"When do we leave?" Donna asked. Maker no, had she already agreed without giving this further thought? And yet … The prospect of going somewhere, anywhere new and different while the rest of her life was in limbo, appealed to her. And Fiann… Well, indeed...

Louhan glanced up from the map. "Two hours before dawn tomorrow."

"This is most excellent!" Fiann said.

#

Fiona helped Seith choose a new staff later that day. The older elf seemed wary of him, had asked him what felt like a thousand questions on the way to the Undercroft where most of the magical weapons were kept. It was abundantly clear that the former first enchanter felt that Seith's inclusion in the expedition was ill considered, and that he would be better served instead by at the very least spending some time at Skyhold in study; in fact, she had several suggestions already...

Seith listened to her lecture with half an ear and tried not to gape at the cavern, at the intricate and arcane equipment that was arranged all over. The place was bone-chillingly cold yet none of this seemed to bother the dwarf hunched at her workbench, who was so busy with her tinkering that she'd not even looked up when they entered.

Fiona spoke. "I don't understand how you _broke_ your last one, especially if, as you say, it was made of iron with a lyrium core."

Seith shrugged, and ran his fingers over the grips of the score or so staves in the rack. "There was a lot of magical backlash."

"That was incredibly irresponsible of your father to let you try something that catastrophic. I hope you exercise more prudence than that. Especially if you're to go out the Maker knows where on official Inquisition business."

He paused and turned slightly, so he could regard her. "Believe me when I tell you, I learnt my lesson. I'm primarily required for my experience in translating ancient languages. Not setting up wards or banishing demons." At least he hoped he wouldn't encounter any demons.

"My offer still stands, should you reconsider." A frown creased her forehead and her expression suggested she thought he was overreaching himself for someone so young.

He sucked in a breath. She meant well. Fiona didn't deserve his shortness; after all, of all the mages he'd met, she was worthy of his respect for the work she'd done years ago to ensure their freedom. Even if it had all come to naught with the reestablishment of the Circles.

"I appreciate all your concern. I am well aware of my strengths and shortcomings." Solas certainly hadn't been shy in reminding him over the years.

Something in the older elf's features softened. "I'm sorry, lad. You were such a tiny slip of a youngster back then. If I'd known…"

"We _didn't_ know," he pointed out. "And by the time we had an inkling, things were already gone to a ball of gurn shit."

She flinched, and he experienced a pang of remorse for having spoken so plainly.

"Then let's get you sorted out. There are a number of staves here that might be suited. Now this one…"

Seith had to admit that having an actual choice in staves instead of making do with something scrounged up was quite exciting. Silverite, red steel, white steel, and even dragon bone. Veridium… In the end he settled on what he thought of as a modest staff constructed from volcanic aurum. It was lighter than his old one and, in fact, _felt_ more suited to him, for lack of better description, as if part of him resonated with the weapon like the other one never had. He nearly baulked in his choice because the grip was dragon webbing. Surely this would go to someone more deserving? The top of staff had been fashioned to resemble a dragon as well, with small chips of red crystal for eyes that seemed to wink at him as he rotated it. The blade at the end needed sharpening, but overall he was in awe of it, could already imagine himself hefting it, how its fire would arc through the air and explode on his foes.

"Interesting choice that," Fiona said.

"How so?"

"Your father brought it with him from their stint out in the Emerald Graves. I suspect if he hadn't run off like that, he'd still have it as a back-up."

"Oh," said Seith, and with something like regret, he tried to replace it in the rack. The staff was far beyond what he could aspire to.

"No," Fiona said and stayed his hand. "A mage's choice in staff is highly subjective. You understood on an implicit level that this staff matches your ability and, indeed your potential."

"I... I don't really feel like I've done anything to deserve this honour."

"Correction," Fiona said with a warm smile. "You haven't achieved that moment of greatness _yet_. You are the scion of two great mages. We know not yet how bright your star might shine. But how could it shine if it is not given the opportunity?"

"But…"

"Keep it. Make your mother proud." Something like admiration gleamed in the former first enchanter's eyes. "She would have wanted the best for you."

"But surely, that's an abuse of privilege?"

She inclined her head, her expression inscrutable. "It is true that few are granted the opportunities that you've had, but then realise also to squander them is as much a sin as abusing them. Point is, you have an opportunity here, and yes, it _is_ beyond that which is offered to many, but then realise that you would also not be standing here if it weren't for your potential to be one of the greatest mages in Thedas. Even if you're an apostate. You're being offered a level of trust, yes, but that would not be extended if it weren't for the fact that there are those who feel you should be given the chance to do right. Also, there aren't many who show your level of proficiency with the ancient Elvhen language."

Seith's heart clenched painfully and he clasped the staff to him. "I'm afraid I'll disappoint everyone."

"We all disappoint someone at some stage in our lives. I may not agree entirely with what the Inquisitor and her advisers have instructed. At the very least I'd like to see to your training personally for a year or two, but then you've had an advantage no one else has been able to claim – that you were raised by a great mage who, even though he's considered to be apostate, is no doubt one of the greatest adepts of the magical arts. In other words, try not to … I'll be blunt. You're being given plenty of rope. Try not to hang yourself, all right? Succeed in this endeavour, and the Inquisition will see to it that you don't get packed off to a Circle when you return. Vanish into the trackless wastes like your father, and, well..." She shrugged.


	25. The Darkness Has Teeth

Chapter 25

Skyhold, Late Kingsway

Seith knew the dream wasn't his own when Solas stepped out from behind pillar. The shock of seeing his father appear so abruptly momentarily robbed him of speech. As always, Solas's expression remained unreadable, and he regarded Seith silently for a few heartbeats. They stood in some nameless ruin the Creators alone knew where. Parts of the barrel-vaulted ceiling many storeys above had fallen away to let in the starlight and the ever-present gush of an unseen water source was complemented by the plinking calls of amphibians.

"Don't do this, da'len," said his father.

"Do what?" Seith responded.

"You're not ready for any of this. There's a reason why I've held back on certain...complications."

Seith rolled his eyes. "Of course you'd say that. And I suppose you're going to follow up by saying that I'm in great danger, and that I'm meddling with forces beyond my ken."

The dream-Solas seemed taller than the one from the waking world; he stalked rather than merely walked as he betook himself to a piece of fallen masonry a dozen paces from where Seith was poised for flight at the foot of a staircase. He made no move to approach Seith, for which he was grateful.

His father leaned casually against the stone, and absently traced his index finger along a section of relief carvings. "I was a lot like you at your age. Hot-headed, impulsive. Also, I realise that I won't be able to dissuade you from your course of action. You'll have to discover your error for yourself. Though that won't stop me from warning you." He glanced up, and his eyes seemed lambent in the gloom. "And I'll ask you anyway. Let me handle these things. Focus on your own studies."

Seith took a step back. No invitation to return to him. Of course not. He'd not just burnt his bridge; he'd pissed on it as well. Should he tell Solas about his near-death at the amphitheatre at the hands of some crazed Venatori blood mage? Or did Solas already know?

Of all the emotions he'd have expected to feel at what he understood implicitly as an unavoidable confrontation that he'd anticipated in the far future – and certainly not now – his hot shame at feeling like an ungrateful brat was the worst. Trust his father to excel in that without even really lifting a finger.

And yet… He'd be a fool not to share some of what he'd recently discovered, though if he could avoid the details pertaining to said discovery, he might still save some face.

"Does the name Mihanin mean anything to you?" he asked Solas.

Solas straightened with a gasp. "Where did you hear that name?"

But then there was a growl, more felt than heard, that rumbled through the ruins. They both looked up as chunks of stone rained down and sleeping birds awoke and burst into flight amid a frenzy of squawking. The ground began to shake and Seith stumbled about drunkenly.

"Seith!" Solas shouted amid the chaos but then his reality fractured, and Seith found himself running. The sudden segueing from dream to dream nearly had him collapse from the shock of it, but equally awful would be to stop running.

The environment was unfamiliar to him. Colossal pillars jutted from dunes as tall as the forest giants in the wilds. The night sky was striated with undulating tongues of fire that shimmered and painted the world with a creepy green light. He ran, his breath burning in his throat, yet the sand was so soft that for each desperate step Seith forged up one of the massive dunes, he was dragged two steps back.

The darkness was coming for him; it had teeth.

#

"Seith! Wake up!" Donna shook her friend's shoulder as he thrashed about in his cot. His skin was clammy.

"This should help," Louhan said as she doused him with a pitcher of water.

Seith let out a despairing wail and sat up, breathing hard, his eyes wide. He blinked in the candlelit dorm room as if the light were too bright for him, the surrounds alien. Tiny green motes momentarily flared about him but vanished before Donna could be sure of what she'd seen.

"Well, I guess that's our wake-up call," Erin quipped. "Far more effective than Cook's rooster."

"What's the hour?" someone else asked.

"I'll go find out," another replied.

"Are you all right?" Donna asked Seith. "You were having a really awful nightmare by the sound of things." He'd been a restless sleeper their entire trip back to Skyhold, often muttering in his sleep – or simply never sleeping at all, so far as she could see. Yet _this_ was truly spectacular so far as night terrors went.

He scrubbed at his face and Donna offered him the edge of his blanket to mop up the worst of the water.

"Maker's breath, can you lot _shurrup_ already?" one of the others called from one of the cots.

Donna sat next to Seith, placed a hand over his. "You've got us a bit frightened."

He flinched, but didn't pull away.

Louhan turned on the human male who'd bitched. "You shut up, Garven. We won't mention the times you just about wet yourself when we faced down those darkspawn six months ago."

"I'm so sorry," Seith whispered. His eyes were wide in horror, as if he was staring at something only he could see. "I – I had a really bad dream." He puffed out a breath then peered at the rest of their dorm room. "And now I've gone and woken everyone."

Louhan gave a soft snort. "We'd probably have to get up in an hour or so anyway." She strode out.

Seith hunched forward and pulled his legs up so that he could rest his chin on his knees. He shuddered.

Donna sighed. "Want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, still staring without giving the appearance of actually seeing anything. Absently, he raked his fingers through his hair, got them stuck in knots Donna itched to brush out. At present he looked as if he'd walked through a bush backwards.

"If you'd rather want to let Fiann know that you'd rather stay at Skyhold…"

He straightened. "No. I've got to do this. It's important. There's … There's stuff going on that I don't know how to describe. Old things stirring."

"Then maybe you should talk to someone about it."

"I did. Kinda. Not sure what good it's going to do. Yet." He shuddered again.

 _Huh?_ Donna wanted to ask him how or when, but then again, the doings of mages were so far out of her sphere of interests, she felt it better to leave well enough alone.

#

As it turned out, their unexpected wake-up call had come half an hour before they had been supposed to get ready to leave. By that time Donna had gotten dressed and packed, and stood out in the courtyard waiting for the rest to arrive. Like the others, she'd broken fast quickly – no more than a hurried mug of tea and warm bread roll filled with bacon and egg. The rest of Skyhold was abuzz with movements. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchens, at war with the dank stench of horse manure that somehow clung to her senses. It wasn't just the disruptive manner of their waking that had irked her, but the hurried preparations of the day before. She'd spent the majority of the day getting kitted out, and then the briefing, of their route, of their duties. What they could expect. Varghests and lurkers were the least of her worries. She was more concerned with the scorpions. _Remember the big pincers suggest that they're not lethally poisonous like the little blighters with the big stingers._

If she'd expected to spend time with Fiann before their departure, her hopes had been dashed before they'd even had a chance to unfurl. By the time she'd found herself in the Herald, with Erin and Seith after dinner, she'd been so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. Two rounds of diamondback later and only two pints of ale, she'd crawled off to her cot in the barracks with nary a whimper. No hangovers allowed.

Their mounts were restless, stamping as they puffed steam into the twilit dawn. Andraste's tits it was cold. Donna pulled her hood low and wished she had a woollen cap or _something_ to keep her head warm. She jabbed her gloved hands into her armpits and hopped from one foot to the other.

Damn the stragglers for making them late.

Seith already sat astride his horse, his cloak pulled tight around him, the hood low, so that he looked more like a blanket-wrapped bundle than a rider. His new staff was strapped to the saddle, an ominous weapon so far as Donna could figure – twisted, gleaming black metal topped by a stylised dragon rampant. Its little red gemstone eyes winked at her, as if it were possessed of its own spirit. Maybe it was. Ugh.

"Hey." Someone touched her shoulder and she spun around, on edge, her right hand brushing the hilt of her left dagger so she cross-draw the damned thing. Jumpy much?

Evan, dressed for travel in Inquisition green, had somehow stalked up behind her. He offered her a weak smile.

"What do you want?" Donna asked, then immediately wished she could take back her gruff words because if he'd appeared the ghost of his former self when she'd rescued him, he appeared no better now.

"I…" He licked his lips.

A horrible suspicion crept over her. "You're coming _with_ us, aren't you? Why?" She wanted to add that he served no purpose except as an oversexed tavern decoration, but she was barely able to bite back that insult before it flew past her lips.

"My…" He frowned, shook his head. "Never mind." He turned and made towards the stables.

"The fuck!" she muttered. Her chest was heavy, her eyes prickly, and she had to breathe deeply three times before she mastered her emotions. Just what was Fiann playing at dragging that fool along?

"Donna?" Seith queried.

She spun to look up at him. "I know."

"Fiann may have his reasons."

"They're blighted stupid reasons. That manchild is liable to get us killed through his arrogance and stupidity."

"Actually, I've a very good reason for including him," Fiann said from next to her.

Donna rounded on him. "Argh! And now _you_ , sneaking up like that."

He was dressed a good deal warmer than her, with a scarf and cap pulled down to cover his ears, and his warm smile disarmed some of her annoyance.

"Care to share? Or are you in the habit of collecting misfits for your own edification?"

"The lad happens to be very knowledgeable in the recognition and uses of assorted useful herbs. Not to mention that he's an accomplished healer."

" _Hfffft_ , he could've fooled me," Donna spat. "And I suppose you just plucked him up when he arrived, just like you did the rest of us?"

"Well, to be honest, he approached me yesterday. Volunteered. I was hardly in a position to say no once he elaborated on his, ahem, background."

Donna's eyes felt as if they were about to bulge out of her skull. "I can't even. Do you have any idea –"

Fiann regarded her calmly. "Any idea of what?"

"I –" Donna shook her head. "Actually, it's none of my business." She glared at the stables, where Evan was going over the tack on a rangy roan he was evidently going to ride.

"Sweet Donna," Fiann started, "I'm well aware the two of you have a past."

Donna bit the inside of her lip to stop her retort. "It's fine. I'll get over myself." She turned and surreptitiously wiped at her eye with her wrist.

This entire situation was just awkward. Whatever warmth she'd felt towards Fiann had been displaced by the fact that he obviously was in command of this expedition. He was her boss, _not_ a potential love interest within this context. It would be so wrong for them to have any public displays of affection. Perhaps it was for the best that a messenger came to hand him a fold of paper at that point, which necessitated his hurrying off so that they didn't have to continue their conversation.

"This just sucks," Donna said.

"Especially that we're not going yet," Seith said.

She looked up at him. "You know, you don't need to be sitting on the bloody horse's back already. You'll have saddle sores by the end of the day."

"It's better than freezing my arse off on the muddy ground."

"You _could_ have gotten kitted out with boots instead of those silly elven foot wrappings," she pointed out.

He turned his head so that she could just discern his glare from under his hood.

"Never mind."

Mercifully, they did get moving not a quarter of an hour later. By that stage, Donna was so thoroughly chilled she wondered if she'd ever get warm again. Her pony was a sure-footed beast that was content to plod along, and she rode abreast of Seith, conscious the entire time that Evan rode just ahead of her. The rat bastard was actually _talking_ and _laughing_ with Fiann as if he and the dwarf were old friends. Maybe they were. Donna didn't like that thought one bit.

Their group was fairly small – four soldiers, two scouts – Erin and Louhan – in addition to herself, Seith, Evan and Fiann. They'd make better time that way, she was sure, and could easily hide if they ran into trouble. Yet the more heavily armed soldiers would be suitable deterrent if they ran into trouble, while Erin and Louhan were more than capable of being silent, deadly trackers. Their six pack mules were heavily laden, and complained the entire way, and Donna prayed there would be no trouble with bandits, however Fiann assured them that an established outpost awaited them at their destination.

"Just don't expect hot water, that's all," he'd said with a wink.

#

The days and weeks while they journeyed passed in a blur for Seith. He did his fair share of duties, from digging latrine pits to collecting firewood. He even volunteered for sentry duty, particularly for the dead hours of the morning when under normal circumstances he would be plagued by his nightmares.

Sleep. Now there was something he craved but dared not indulge in for longer than an hour or two at a time. Though he mastered the art of snoozing on horseback, he remained exhausted. Yet he daren't give in, and it wasn't only because he feared that his father would seek him out – and he was well aware that his avoidance of Solas was childish – but the sheer, unutterable terror he'd experienced that night before they'd left clung to him, like the noxious smell of an accidentally disturbed shield bug. Had this _thing_ in the Fade sought him out because of his connection to Solas or had it been because he'd dropped Mihanin's name? Whichever reason it was, he was not about to place himself in a similar predicament again in a hurry.

Yet it felt good to travel, to have purpose. He supposed it was the novelty of it all, of being surrounded by others who laughed and traded jibes. Of not just being called _da'len_ and be expected to meditate quietly for hours or pore over ancient texts obscured by velvet furrings of moss. His current situation suited him fine, even if, to an extent, he was mostly left alone – no doubt due to discomfort because of who his father was; Seith dared to consider that he might even be _happy._

Or content, rather, and comforted by the doings of those who surrounded him, even if he wasn't quite part of them – the two elves, who came and went like ghosts; the ribald tales of the soldiers; Fiann somehow managing to flit hither and thither (if that were possible for a dwarf), always interested, always noticing things; and of course the unspoken silent war between Evan and Donna, who steadfastly refused to acknowledge the other.

To give the human some credit, he _could_ cook well, though Seith had no desire to unthaw around Evan for fear of upsetting Donna. Everyone (except possibly the pair of them) could see it was only a matter of time before one of them would give, and Seith was pretty certain the results would be spectacular. Then again, it was never a good idea to let a boil fester, was it?

What amused Seith no end was the way the two dwarves made cow eyes at each other when the one thought the other wasn't watching. Not only that, but watching Evan observe the pair of them. What exactly had Fiann been thinking including Evan? Did he regret his decision? Did Evan indeed harbour some sort of affection for Donna. If he did, he had a funny way of showing it.

Also, Seith had to consider the possible ramifications of having the royal bastard along. Perhaps it suited the Inquisition to have Evan as far away from potential trouble. Rather have him vanish a while than have him paraded about like a cockerel, a target for anyone who knew what to look for. What could be more remote than where they were headed?

At least that was the only motivation Seith could tease out of their current situation, and the more he considered it, the more it made sense. It didn't take a sage to figure out that Fiann was ridiculously well connected – enough that he could command space in the spymaster's eyrie. Which meant he was someone to watch out for and be on guard against letting anything too revealing slip from his tongue.

Which brought Seith to the one truth that he hadn't shared with his friends yet, a truth that he'd kept locked close to his heart when Fiann had allowed him to examine the unknown metal fragment. There'd been another symbol incised in the shard that, although truncated, he'd been pretty sure represented the vallaslin that had marred Mihanin's brow. Of course unless he had more clues, there was no way of telling for sure, but he'd felt a flicker of unease.

Also, Seith had absolutely no doubt that Fiann would be watching him _very_ carefully, and whatever Fiann knew, the spymaster herself would surely find out. Now _there_ was something potentially more frightening than taking on half a dozen Terror demons.


	26. Here Be Dragons, or Not

Chapter 26

Hissing Wastes,

Late Harvestmere

According to the map, the Inquisition outpost _should_ have been situated within a protective outcropping of rock. Except Seith had figured out something was wrong when Erin had come racing back to confer in hushed tones with Fiann.

Creators be damned, all he wanted was to dismount, drink something other than tepid water out of a flask and lie down. The heat of the day was already robbing him of all volition, causing mirages to shimmer in the distance in a most disconcerting fashion. Stunted trees appeared to dance and wave about their boughs, and the incessant screech of cicadas grated on his ears. They should have reached shelter at least an hour ago, but one of the mules had gone lame and they'd had to redistribute its burden.

If it weren't for the fact that the nights were bone-shattering chilled to the point that his piss froze moments after leaving his body, he'd not believe that cold existed after the sun was up. This was what passed for winter in the Hissing Wastes – extremes of temperature that caused him to wonder how _anything_ could endure out here. Yet small signs of life were everywhere, from the tracks of the elusive fennec to the sight of antelope in the distance – skittish creatures with blue hide that remained out of bow range.

Donna drooped in the saddle, her skin just as tanned as his now, her hood pulled low to shade her face.

"What's going on?" she murmured, looking up. "Why've we stopped again?"

"Something's not right."

Fiann called for Lieutenant Haye, who kicked his mount forward, so that they could confer. Then he gave a signal, and the soldiers and the two scouts raced ahead.

"Shouldn't we stay with them?" Donna asked Fiann.

Fiann shook his head, his expression grim. That's when Seith happened to glance up at the sky, where he counted a score of carrion birds wheeling. _Shit_.

One of the mules offered a forlorn bray in response, and Evan dismounted, went to collect their lead ropes. Despite the ridiculous floppy hat he'd found somewhere, the fair-skinned human had not fared well in this harsh environment. His skin was burnt, constantly peeling, and he peered at everything through slit eyes. Served him right.

Evan and Donna had reached a point in their dialogue that had moved from mutual silent treatment to occasional barbed exchanges. Fiann seemed to delight in this mischief, and Seith was certain he deliberately picked sides just for shits and giggles, as Donna was wont to say.

Which didn't help Fiann's position with Donna, so far as Seith could see, and Seith had no reservations about stirring Donna against Fiann either. After all, there'd been little else to do _but_ stir trouble these past few weeks. What's more, it had been _fun_ , a concept that had, up until this point in his life, been utterly alien to Seith. Some dim part of him was aware that he was acting like a juvenile with his malicious meddling, but by equal measure, anything that distracted him from his own problems was a boon. Like being chronically exhausted thanks to not getting enough sleep.

Except now, of course, things were getting real.

People had _died_. Those scavenging crows circling what was supposed to be an Inquisition outpost weren't there because it was a beautiful morning. That's if one could call a day that was rapidly turning into a blistering inferno beautiful. Seith wanted to get out of the sun yesterday already.

A whistle sounded, and Fiann straightened in his saddle. A horse snorted.

"All right. That's the all clear. Be aware of what's going on around us."

Seith took that as his cue to pull his staff out from where it was strapped to his saddle. The gleaming black metal hummed in his grasp, and his own magical potential buzzed in answer.

 _Nothing more elaborate than a barrier_ , he reminded himself. A simple barrier was _safe._ Would keep _them_ safe. Wouldn't attract demons and other spirits the way Seith's more outrageous magical attempts did. He kept the spell ready, poised, and cast about him as they proceeded.

All that remained of the outpost were blackened poles and singed tatters of canvas. Crates had been pulverised, but there was no mistaking the score marks in the hard-packed sand nor the definite blasts where gouts of fire had baked the ground to a glass-like sheen.

He saw it in Donna's eyes as they picked their way between the charred skeletons of what had once been Inquisition soldiers. Their poses spoke of unutterable agony in their last moments.

 _Dragon._

"I thought Inquisitor Pentaghast had taken care of the last high dragon a decade ago," Donna murmured.

"Evidently not," Seith replied _. Here be dragons_. He tried not to laugh.

Fiann was pragmatic about their situation. They set their own tents up in a natural alcove that had been sculpted by the wind, where it was at least marginally cooler in the shade. Thankfully, the cistern was still half-full, and according to Lieutenant Haye, the next supply wain was due to arrive in less than a week. So they waited out the heat of the day, and yes, Seith had his cold water. The general mood was subdued; most slept, or tried to, at least. Whenever the crows landed, Seith and Donna found stones and turned it into a contest to see who could hit one of the awful birds. Donna always won, and the crows soon learnt to stay out of stone's throw.

The shadows eventually lengthened and a south-easterly wind gusted, sending puffs of sand. Patches of bleached-blond grasses hissed and nodded. It was time, with the westering sun, for them to begin the grim tasks of disposing of the dead.

"Who's to say the dragon won't come back?" Donna murmured to Seith.

"Hush now, don't say that," Seith replied. Creators no. Please don't let the dragon come back. Then again, what he knew of high dragons was paltry; suffice to say that he'd prefer to give them a wide berth if at all possible.

They dug a pit, where they burnt what remains they could find. By the time twilight had turned the sky from aquamarine to the soft hue of dove's feathers, they had removed most traces of the disaster. Except for those flat expanses of glass. Dare he call it _draconic_ glass?

He and Donna broke a sheet of it and sat by the fire examining the pieces that were black, like obsidian.

"I suppose this means it's a fire-breathing high dragon," Donna said.

"Ugh, yes."

"We'll send some of that back to the university at Val Royeaux," Fiann said from across the fire. "I know a researcher who has gathered a considerable body of lore, who'd be most interested."

"Who in their right minds _studies_ dragons?" Donna asked.

"You'd be surprised," Fiann said. "If it weren't for their interest, we'd not have half the knowledge we'd possess about their habits and life cycle."

Seith snorted. "The only knowledge I prefer is how to stay out of their blighted territory."

"Come now, where's your sense of adventure?" Fiann replied.

"In this case," Donna said, "I'd agree with Seith. I think I left my sense of adventure out on the road the moment we saw those carrion birds."

Fiann sipped from his mug, grimaced then spoke. "I concede to your misgivings in this entire situation, however I must add we don't know enough about the dragon's whereabouts nor species. We'll send word when the supplies arrive, but for now we must conduct a recon so that we at least have a better idea of circumstances. Also, we need to pinpoint the exact location of the temple."

This made Seith straighten. "What do you mean the _exact_ location? I thought you knew already?"

"We have an _approximate_ location. Tonight we split into teams. Evan, myself and Louhan. Seith, you and Donna, with Erin. Lieutenant Haye will ensure that our camp remains secure. And please, for the love of all that's unblighted, take enough water and _try_ not to get lost."

To this, Erin snorted indelicately.

"Seriously, Fiann, do you have anything better to go on?" Donna asked.

He gestured vaguely behind him. "That ridge behind us, to the north. There are three dry river beds, according to reports. You'll take the westerly one; we'll take the easterly one. While you're at it, keep an eye out for any interesting mineral deposits, any architectural remnants that might give a hint for where we can set up sites for further research. There are copies of the maps for you to take along and please _mark_ appropriate places."

Louhan gave a small cackle of laughter. "You're forgetting something, boss."

He turned to her with a frown. "What?"

"Try not to get eaten by dragons."

A groan went up from their campfire.

"As if we need reminding," Donna muttered darkly.

#

"He's an ass," Donna said and punctuated her statement by kicking a pebble ahead of her. The small stone skittered ahead of them, knocking into others. The sound echoed off the surrounding cliffs.

"Hey, try not to draw attention to us," Erin said. The blonde was perched on a boulder not far ahead of them.

Next to Donna, Seith knelt to examine the ground. "Dare I remind you that several times during this trip, you've justified your situation by saying that it's better that you and Fiann are _not_ involved? And then you spend as much time as possible trying to be ornery, or just trying to avoid him where possible. Imagine how he must feel."

Donna wanted to punch her friend, but he had a point. "Then why did he woo me like that the night before his big announcement? He was manipulating me."

"Have you ever thought that maybe you're the one who's all prickly and keeps people at arm's length?" Seith said. "But don't mind me much. I've spent the past decade with only a grumpy old fart for company. Dwarven courtship rituals are way out of my ken." He sniggered.

"You _want_ me to kick you, don't you?"

"Need I remind you that we're supposed to be looking for stuff?"

" _Grrrrmmmff_ ," Donna replied, but she did resume her search. For what exactly, she wasn't sure. The largest of the moons was up already, and bathed everything in a ghostly glow so bright they didn't need the lanterns they'd brought with them.

Their advantage was also their disadvantage, Donna realised. As bright as the night was, so they could see quite well in the river bed, they themselves were equally visible. Which was why Erin was jumpy, her bow in her hands. The elf wasn't so much worried about lurkers, but hyena, as she'd found day-old scat not far back, though the tracks themselves had already been obscured by shifting sand.

And Maker's breath, it was _cold._ Donna had bundled on one of Erin's extra sweaters, and walked with her hands tucked under her arms as she examined the ground. Her breath steamed like smoke.

Loose shards, small stones that appeared to be manufactured, not eroded. That's what she had to keep an eye out for. Basic archaeology, according to Fiann, who'd told them to look particularly where run-off from wet season rain might dump accumulated rubble.

So far, the most exciting thing they'd found was a fragment of bone – a vertebra belonging to a lurker, Erin reckoned.

 _So long as_ we _don't encounter any of the beasties_.

A narrow ravine yawned to her left, and Donna scrambled up the scree to the entrance. It was when she looked back to see where Erin and Seith were, that she saw the squiggles of paint on the opposite end of the river bed, partially obscured by an overhang but perfectly visible from her vantage point.

She whistled and waved, then pointed. The looked up then both elves nimbly scrambled up to the ledge where the painting was. Trust the first item of interest to be all but unreachable for a short person. Climbing had never been one of Donna's favourite activities. Down she scrambled again, nearly setting of a miniature avalanche of rocks and stones. Then she ran up to the base of the opposing cliff.

"I'm not climbing up there," she called up. "What do you see?"

"Creators, Donna," Seith called down. "You're making enough noise for a stampeding bronto."

"And if I hadn't gone looking up that scree the first place, we'd probably have walked right past without noticing this painting," she said.

"Fine, all right." He vanished from sight again, and Donna spent a while straining to hear the two elves' murmured conversation.

Presently, they jumped down.

"Well?" Donna asked.

Erin shook her head. "It's a symbol. Looks elven but I'm not sure I've ever seen anything like that before."

"It's El _vhen_ ," Seith said. "And you forget, we _have_ seen its like before."

"Where?" Donna asked.

"The vallaslin marking Mihanin's face," Seith replied.

Erin scrunched up her face. "Those markings… Now that I come to think of it, they weren't for any of our gods. I don't understand." She leaned back against the rock wall. "I don't like this."

"Well, what does all of this mean?" Donna asked.

Erin spoke. "We mark our faces with vallaslin to honour our gods. June, Mythal and so on. To mark one's face with an unknown vallaslin … I don't like where this is going. I didn't really think about it before…"

"It's either an act of a truly misguided individual or…" Seith added. "Considering the context of our discovery, this was one of the Elvhen whose slumber we disturbed. We were used to awaken, to pull out of the long sleep."

"How old?" Donna asked.

Seith shrugged. "Dunno. A thousand, two or three thousand."

Donna gasped. "You're shitting me, right."

"Not at all. There are some temples, as my mother discovered, where the guardians, the Sentinels, as they refer to themselves, still linger to preserve the glories of past Arlathan. When my mother drank from the Well of Sorrows, she brought to an end one such remnant. It's not inconceivable that others linger."

"Wait, are you trying to tell me that Mihanin may be the servant of a god we _don't_ know about?" Erin asked.

"Not a servant," Seith said. "A _slave_. But I'm not going to go into great depth here because the Dalish never were receptive to this sort of information."

"What do you mean, 'the Dalish'?" Anger had edged into Erin's tone. "You think you're something special now, shem? So far as I know, your mother was of Clan Lavellan. Pity about your bare-faced shem father."

Seith laughed, stepped back a bit. "Oh, I'm so not going to get into this discussion with you right now. I've said too much already." His expression filled with something a little like regret. "After all these years that you've served with the Inquisition, you still hold onto your quaint beliefs. The world is so much bigger than what you think it is."

"Seith!" Donna interjected, somewhat appalled by his behaviour. "We're losing focus."

"Ir abelas." He inclined his head first to Erin, then to Donna. "Forgive me."

"I should slap you upside the head for being a cocky knob," Donna said.

Erin glared at him then started walking back down the canyon. She paused to call over her shoulder, "We'd better head back to base. The boss will want to see that symbol and, besides, dawn's approaching."

Donna groaned. They'd left their mounts hobbled near a stand of thorn trees. They still had a considerable ride over a dune field before they could get some rest. "This sucks," she muttered, and began following Erin.

Seith followed her after a few heartbeats, a shadow more felt than seen. There were times, like this night, that her friend could be downright creepy. Damned elves.


	27. Leaning Into You

Chapter 27

Hissing Wastes,

Late Harvestmere

Though her body felt as if it had been cast from lead, Donna still couldn't bear to crawl into her tent after their debriefing once the rest of the team had returned. One thing to be said about the Hissing Wastes – the sunrises and sunsets were truly among the most beautiful she'd ever seen. Like this morning, where the wind had softened to the merest whisper, and tugged its fingers through the blond grasses. The sky had turned from ink to a washed-out cobalt, and in the east, the thin white edge of the horizon had gradually bloomed into pomegranate. The ridge to the north, where those treacherous river valleys lay, appeared smooth, unfrowning at this distance. Yet an hour's ride by horseback over the dunes… She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes to try get some of the grit out of them.

Though the air remained chill, the dawn had taken the edge off the cold, which she described as mostly bearable now that she'd had a cup of hot coffee in her. She'd go to bed soon, but not quite yet. The idea of sharing a tent with Erin, who still wouldn't admit to her snoring, made her even less anxious to rest.

Donna liked her perch high on the weathered outcropping that protected their camp; not only because the climb was as easy as following a naturally eroded gully, but because up here, she could hear herself think, and she could write in her journal without having anyone poke their noses into her pages the way they had when they'd still been on the road. The red granite formed natural steps, wind scoured and perfect for sitting. It was a whole other world up here, as if some giant had moulded the stone while it existed in a pliable state. She still had a good hour or so before the heat became unbearable, baking off the rock, but she'd put her time to good use.

Except the words refused to flow; in fact she'd already scrapped three outlines since she'd come up here, each more ludicrous than the last.

Oh, she'd kept meticulous notes thus far related to their expedition. All neatly printed in the Inquisition-stamped journals Fiann had provided. _This_ journal, however, she'd set aside for herself; she'd bought it with her own money from Bonny Sims' stall in Skyhold. It was a rather lovely binding – soft, forest green nappa leather with a darker trim. The pages inside were a creamy vellum that smelled faintly of resin. She'd shuddered at the asking price, but the book had begged her to fill its pages.

And she wasn't doing it justice. She glared at the three pages struck through so roughly she'd scrunched the paper on the last pencil hack.

 _Hack_ – now there was the operative word. She was just a hack, a nobody who aspired to greatness out of dumb hero worship. How many times had she read her father's books, traced the lines with her fingers until the ink had started smudging? She'd lost count. Yet if she'd opened those pages and inhaled all those words, she could somehow get closer to him and all the people he held dear without the fear that he would turn his back on her.

"There you are."

Donna started and snapped shut her journal.

Fiann emerged from the gulley and surveyed the view.

"It's not against the rules or anything for me to come up here, is it?" Donna asked, prepared to be chastised.

He shook his head, sauntered over. "No. So long as someone knows where you are – but then again, nothing much escapes Lieutenant Haye and the others." He sat on the ledge next to her with a weary sigh. Close enough to touch.

Try as she might, Donna couldn't summon her usual barriers. Without anyone else present, Fiann was just Fiann. The skin beneath his eyes appeared bruised and his stubble had grown into a beard. His hair had been roughly dragged back into a tail, yet he'd missed the fact that there were several twigs lodged in the resultant mess as well.

"You could do with someone brushing your hair, you know," Donna said. A peace offering then, from her side. She was too exhausted by all that had transpired these past few days – and weeks getting here – to even try to pretend that she didn't miss the Fiann she'd met in Lothering and that one precious night they'd had in Skyhold.

He smiled faintly. "If someone were to volunteer, I'd let them."

Donna set aside her journal and patted the ground in front of her. "Well, you going to submit to my ministrations then?"

"Ha! Who'm I to refuse a beautiful dwarven lass who offers me a space between her legs?"

"Maker's breath." Donna rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help but laugh away the faint blush she was certain crept up her cheeks. "Just get your arse on the ground so I can make you look less like a startled miniature werewolf."

He nonetheless obeyed, and the solidness of his back pressed against her legs was reassuring. Donna untangled the thong he'd used to tie back his hair with some difficulty and admit some cursing on his part.

"When last _did_ you do anything about this?" she asked, and tugged a particular snarl a bit more than she should have.

"Ow! Wench!"

She tugged another snarl and giggled nastily as he squirmed.

"Sit still or it'll go worse for you."

"Yes, Mom."

"Hardly."

There was something soothing in the act of untangling the man's hair, however – a curious intimacy even though they'd not progressed further than fumbling and kissing up on the battlements.

"You carry on like that and I might even start purring," Fiann said, his words slightly slurred as he leaned back into her.

"My mom used to brush my hair when I was a wee lass," Donna said. "Especially if I'd had a bit of an altercation with the local kids. She always knew how to make me feel better." _Except not recently_.

He sighed contentedly. "I should apologise on my side for the past few weeks. It's been …"

"You've had a lot on your plate," Donna supplied. "You don't need to apologise. If anything, I should, for behaving like a wasp."

"An adorable wasp."

Donna tugged his hair hard enough for him to hiss. "Woops."

"I'm too tired to struggle right now. I'm fine with whatever you do so long as you don't pull the hair out by its roots."

Donna sighed. "Guess we're not going to have much time to rest, are we?" In other words, this wasn't the time nor the place to truly consider any romantic entanglements.

He shook his head. "Nope."

Donna bit her lip, glad he couldn't see her expression which she was certain would betray her worry. "What do you make of Seith's warning about the Elvhen writing?"

"I'll keep it in mind. We simply don't know enough at this point. If, as the elves say, those symbols are ancient, as determined by the condition of the paint, then we don't have much to worry about."

"It's a strange coincidence, don'tcha think?"

"Life is full of strange coincidences. I mean, just look at our motley crew."

"That's mostly your own doing," Donna said. "You're the mastermind."

"Perhaps, but if you think about it, our paths all seemed to cross roundabout the same time. It was too delicious an opportunity to pass up. The Maker moves in mysterious ways. All of you have something to offer."

"If someone were to write this story, they'd possibly suggest that you want to recapture the glory days of the Inquisition before they became the Chantry's peacekeepers."

Fiann snorted. "I grew up on your father's stories, I'll have you know. Allow a dwarf the opportunity to pursue his dreams."

"So, I'm part of your dreams, huh?"

He leaned back so that he could look up at her. From this close, she could see the small amber flecks in his hazel eyes. "Perhaps." His smile was lazy.

"You were sent to look into me, weren't you?"

"Perhaps."

She poked him in the ribs for that.

"Of course, when I realised that the person of interest had… other rather more bewitching qualities, I unfortunately found myself smitten. My only question is, how does the dwarven maiden feel about the lovelorn fool at her feet?"

"Well, she's helping to make him appear a bit more presentable, if that's any indication," Donna said. "And perhaps, if things were allowed to … develop … we'll discover the true depth of her feelings."

"That sounds like she's not so certain of herself now."

Donna couldn't prevent herself from letting a small sigh escape. "She's not certain of anything at present. Andraste's tits, are we going to spend the rest of this conversation talking about ourselves in third person?"

"I do recall it was you who started with that."

"Ass."

"Well?" He shifted around so that he knelt before her.

"I'm not done with your hair yet."

"Oh, sod the hair, Donna. Basically, I just want to know, can we start over with this whole business of boy dwarf likes girl dwarf, and wants to know if they can entertain some sort of romantic entanglement?"

She smirked. "You know, if you break my heart, my father will be most irate. His stories suggest that his displeasure can be most … pointed."

"Does that mean you'll join me in Kirkwall when this is all said and done? And actually meet the man?"

"Perhaps." For the first time in weeks, Donna's smile felt genuine. Damn Fiann; he had beautiful eyes. She cupped his cheeks and leaned in to kiss him.

#

Seith sank into fitful slumber. The heat of the day made the air like soup, so thick he could almost scoop it with a ladle let alone breathe it. No matter how he tried, sand got in everywhere, his clothing, in his ears even. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist – more grit. Not to mention the flies. Their relentless drone was stupefying. Maddening.

If it weren't for the fact that he was so bloody exhausted, he'd set up a barrier or maybe narrow his focus and stab at the insects with needles of fire. Yet the exhaustion dragged at him and, not only that, but he wrestled with a previously unknown emotion that chewed at his conscience. Guilt. That's what it was. For being an ass.

Neither Donna nor Erin had spoken to him since they'd arrived back at camp. Later he'd caught Louhan and Erin in quiet conversation, with occasional flashes of annoyed glances cast in his direction that seemed to say, _Oh, so you think you're better than us, do you?_

His father would have brushed off these thoughts, have had something convenient to say, but Seith wasn't _with_ his parent at this stage, which was both blessing and curse. Blessing, because he didn't have someone constantly judging him but also the latter, because he was totally cut adrift.

 _Face it, you don't know what you're doing, why you're doing it_ …

Somehow this burden of worrying tipped him over the edge into the darkness of a dream, muddled at first and involving seemingly endless passages and staircases. Jumbled voices called in Elvhen, so faint and on the edge of his hearing that it was impossible to discern what they were saying, save that they were afraid. Deeply afraid. The ground rumbled, cracks appeared, and he was shaken from his feet. Masonry fell in large chunks, narrowly missed him and rolled off into the darkness.

Running didn't help. It was more stumbling and falling, the ground slipping beneath his feet.

 _The world is ending._

And then he plunged into nothingness, all solidity so abruptly gone that he tumbled screaming into the Abyss –

"Seith!" Evan shook him awake, and he lay there safe, in his tent, gasping in the warm air. The familiarity of the tent's canvas reassured him.

Evan let go of his shoulder and rocked back on his heels. "Are you all right?"

Seith swallowed back the rawness of his throat, and only lent the muttered queries about his wellbeing outside half an ear. He blinked, and couldn't quite rid himself of the sensation of falling and the nausea that roiled in his stomach.

"Excuse me I think I'm going to be –" Seith scrambled out of the tent to be sick just outside the tent flap. Again and again he retched, and brought up only the water he'd drunk before going to lie down. His brow was clammy, too warm, even to his own touch, and the world spun most alarmingly – what was potentially more worrying were the faint crackles of green around his fingers. As if a rift was whispering. He shuddered, pulled his hands to his belly, and hunched there until the worst of the sickness dissipated.

"Here." A tin mug of water was held before him.

Seith groaned, sat up slowly, and accepted the drink from Evan. "Thanks."

"Figured us social pariahs should stick together," Evan said as he cut a glance in Louhan and Erin's direction.

The two elves stood not far away, both watchful. One of the soldiers crouched at the entrance of his tent, frowned at Seith and Evan, then crawled back inside.

Seith sipped a small mouthful of water and swished it around – enough to wet – then swallowed. "I've woken everyone up. What time is it?"

Evan looked up, squinted. "Probably near noon. Wouldn't go out there now. It's a furnace."

Seith grimaced, not only at the vile taste in his mouth but also at the mere thought of venturing past the protective overhang of rocks that sheltered them. Even in the shade, the air was too warm. "Don't worry. I wasn't planning to."

"I can give you some tea for the nausea," Evan said. "Also, something to help you sleep that will take the dreams away."

"What do you know about dreams?"

"Enough," Evan said, "to know that sometimes you want to sleep without dreaming." His expression became desolate.

Understanding flooded Seith. "I'm sorry for what happened to you when…" He didn't like thinking of those times himself, though he'd not been kept long enough by the Venatori to suffer the way Evan and some of the others had.

He shuddered to think at what _may_ have happened had the ritual taken place later. Long enough for the idle guards to grow bored with their sport, and their gazes to linger elsewhere… To him.

"I'll live," Evan said.

"Please tell me the tea doesn't have elfroot in it," Seith said. "I can't abide the taste."

Evan cracked what was possibly the first smile he'd seen on the man since he'd met him. "My dear friend, elfroot goes in _everything._ "

#

 **Author's note:** I admit that after playing through most of the Trespasser DLC this past weekend then having gone on to watch a video clip the Solavellan version of the interchange with Solas at the eluvian (so nicely hinted at with the trailer), I nearly abandoned this fic. To say that I'm devastated is to put it mildly. Yet I need to finish this story, and I will draw comfort from the fact that there are some amazing authors who've given me joy so far, with big shout outs to KeeperLavellan (AO3), Tishina (AO3), VoiDreamer (AO3), Wildmooncat (FFN), and YellowDancer (FFN), among others, whose ongoing work have restored my faith in Dragon Age that BioWare has torn asunder in the most deliciously evil manner possible. Go read their stories. You won't be disappointed, and it may even remove the foul taste of egg from your mouth. ;-) In the meanwhile, I'll take from Trespasser what I find as useful to my headcanon, but I will try not to let my current bitterness taint my story too much. I. Am. Very. Bitter. Right. Now.

Also, no closure. Not really. Bah. I will be moping for a long, long time.


	28. That's Really not a Good Idea

Chapter 28

Hissing Wastes,

Late Harvestmere

They left as soon as the sun kissed the western horizon. The day's residual heat lingered, but the temperature was plummeting rapidly. Donna still basked in the morning's fuzz. She and Fiann had kissed, things had gotten a bit heated, but they'd held back. He'd told her he wanted things to be special, yet that didn't stop her body from remembering every caress, every touch – and wanting more.

She'd accused him of being a hopeless romantic, but he had a point. Besides, the sun had risen further, and if they'd remained out on the ledge much longer, they'd have burnt parts of their bodies that weren't necessarily meant to be exposed to the harsh desert environment.

Now _that_ made her smile, and feel all wriggly at the same time.

Consequently, she was entirely certain that everyone still awake at the time knew exactly what _had_ happened when they returned to camp. Even if they'd both agreed to avoid any public displays of affection. Yet there was no denying his cheeky, knowing grin.

Erin nudged her back into the present with a sharp jab in the ribs. "So, finally, eh?"

Donna summoned what she hoped was a perfectly bland expression and blinked at the elf. "Eh?"

"Y'know…" She nodded towards where Fiann and Louhan were riding abreast, deep in conversation.

"I'm afraid I've no idea what you're talking about," Donna said.

"That shit-eating grin on your face suggests otherwise. About bloody time too. And old Haye owes me a drink when we get back to Skyhold."

"You were placing _wagers_?" Donna's cheeks felt as if they were aflame.

Erin shrugged. "Mayhap."

Mercifully, she escaped the rest of the ride without too much ribbing. What did worry her was the way Seith was so withdrawn, riding at the back of the party on Evan's tail. The two of them had actually been _talking_ when she'd awoken some time after noon, and appeared to be getting on just fine. Which was weird, and made her uncomfortable, yet she couldn't precisely express why.

When she turned the thought over a few times Donna was startled into the realisation that she was jealous – that Seith should be keeping company with Evan at all. That in itself made her angry – at herself – because Seith was free to do whatever he pleased. Even if she could somehow wish hard enough for Evan to spontaneously burst into flame.

Which brought her to the prickly problem that was Evan. Of late he'd done absolutely nothing to annoy her; in fact, he'd pointedly been avoiding any form of direct contact beyond a mere nod or greeting. As if they were cordial strangers rather than long-time friends.

Who was being more mature than the other about the entire situation?

She had to shake her head because she wasn't the one who was being entirely objective about the situation. Adding Fiann to the mix made her mind even noisier, because she more than just liked the infuriating dwarf yet she couldn't quite let go of her feelings with regard to Evan either. If she were being entirely logical about potential outcomes, she could walk away from her hopeless infatuation with Evan and that would be that.

Yet every time she looked at the human, her heart thudded sickly with guilt. Rationally, she understood she was wasting her time; Evan would never return her feelings. This endless bashing her head against the brick wall of his existence had proved as much over the past two or so years that she'd known him. Yet there was a part of her that was stubborn, that refused to let go.

Pathetic.

So she concentrated on where they were going, kept watch of their surroundings in the twilit gloom as they approached their destination. She filled her lungs with the cooling air, grateful that the furnace of the day had passed – even if it meant they'd be bitterly cold during the dead of night. They rode mostly in silence, with only the occasional murmured conversations. Whether it was anticipation or apprehension, or a mingling of both, she couldn't tell.

Her own stomach was tight, the light evening meal of flatbread served with game a heavy lump in her belly. Not for the first, nor the last time, did she check her daggers, that her bow was strung, that her arrows were within easy reach. A peculiar sense of foreboding had crawled up her spine and rested on her shoulders, making her aware of every small detail in the landscape around them, from the gritty clop of the horses' hooves on the excuse of a track they followed down to the mournful hooting of some unfamiliar night bird or creature in the distance.

None of this was helped in the least by the fact that neither of the moons had risen yet, and she had to trust the elves' sharp eyes as they ranged ahead.

Meanwhile the cold settled, dragged into her bones, and even shivering didn't help. The heat from her pony's flanks made somewhat of a difference, but Donna feared that her nose and cheeks would fall off before long.

They left the horses with Louhan this time, who elected to remain behind in case hyenas came – she claimed the spoor was far fresher than before, massive pawprints superimposed over their own from the previous night, which suggested that the massive beasts had come to investigate.

Donna wanted to point out that one slender elf would do little to prevent one of the massive brutes from killing a horse or worse, but who was she to argue? Then again, it was somewhat reassuring to know that someone could still go fetch help if they didn't make it back in time.

Oh Maker's arse, where had that thought sprung from?

After a brief break to share nips from a flask of brandy, they began their trudge up the ravine, Erin in the lead, followed by Fiann, then Donna, Seith and, lastly, Evan. They pressed on in silence, the only sounds the occasional scattering of loose pebbles as they navigated scrambles. When they reached the spot where Donna had seen the painting, they paused so that Fiann could climb up and examine the rock art himself. She envied him his apparent agility finding handholds in the seemingly sheer rock face. Seith joined him, and the two conferred quietly for much longer than Donna deemed necessary.

Andraste's tits, it was an ancient elven squiggle. What could possibly be so fascinating about it?

Presently, Fiann clambered down and sauntered over to Donna. "Here's a sketch of the symbol. Can you include it in the journal? Also, the execution appears quite old, judging by the weathering. Estimates to around a few hundred years if I compare it to rock art I've seen elsewhere."

She accepted the offered scrap of paper, and their fingers brushed briefly. "Sure."

He offered her a brief smile. "Cheer up, lady."

"Am I that obvious?" Donna wanted to groan in dismay.

"Your face is like a thundercloud." He beamed at her.

" _Mmfff_ ," she responded. "I'm freezing my tits off. It's a wee bit difficult maintaining a positive attitude."

"We'll break for tea shortly once we get further along."

"Should bloody well hope so," Donna said.

Fiann squeezed her shoulder then turned back to the others. "All right, folks, enough malingering. Keep your wits about you. Seith, please go ahead with Erin. Keep an eye out for anything magical that we need to know about."

Incongruously, Donna found herself at the rear, struggling to keep up with the others as the incline grew steeper, the rocks looser and causing mini avalanches as she tried not to lag. She had one bad moment when she lost her footing, and it was only when someone grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her up to a ledge that she realised who it was.

Evan.

"You all right there, Donna-love?"

How easy it was to fall into the old quirks.

She nodded, her chest tight from more than just their climb. "Thanks."

He waited for her to go first, and it was good to know that he had her back. For once. She didn't have anything to say to him, however, but then Fiann was there just ahead of her, and he helped her up over a few places where the scrambles were precipitous.

"You're doing just fine," Fiann said.

"I wasn't built for this sort of madness."

He flashed her a cheeky grin then steadied her as she wobbled over another step. "I'll let you into a secret. Neither am I, but I've learnt to cope."

"Ooh! If I could pinch you now…" Donna said.

"Rather don't. You might overextend yourself." He snickered at her efforts. "It gets better, I promise."

"This is a far cry from my days minding doors, all right?"

"Hey, I'm not judging."

"I suppose we don't know if we're nearly there yet, do we?"

"Haven't a clue."

So it went for a good while until the first of the moons rose and visibility was better, even though Donna felt her legs were going to fall off. That was until loose rocks began to rain down on them and all warning came when Erin yelled something that sounded suspiciously like "Dragonling!"

But by that stage all Donna could do was brace herself as a large shape skidded towards them from above. A heavy object – possible a loose stone – struck her knee and she rolled with the impact, sliding painfully a few feet before she slammed into a rock. Her bow and pack were ripped from her but thank the Maker she was wearing her leathers. Incongruously, that was the only thought that went through her mind. Damned leathers.

For a horrible moment she wondered if she'd broken something. Breathing was out of the question, and she wheezed, barely conscious of the clamour and yells around her. A massive bloom of flame seared the air not four feet from where she flailed, heating her skin and singeing her eyebrows. A stench of rotten eggs made her gag.

 _Get up, you stupid dwarf!_

Donna moaned as she scrabbled to her knees, half blind after the glare from the flame. Even as she blinked back her vision the air hummed around her and a ripple of green light flared.

 _Whump!_

She was knocked against the ravine's wall, half mashed onto a ledge as a deluge of hot liquid cascaded over her. Her ears rang and all she could do was hold on for dear life while she tried to make sense of what had happened.

The silence was deafening. She relaxed somewhat, wiped at her face then dared to open her eyes. The metallic tang hit her next and Donna came to the startling conclusion that she was coated in a viscous combination of blood and tiny gobbets of flesh.

"What the…" Fiann said from somewhere below her.

Someone moved about six feet further down the ravine. Evan probably, judging by the person struggled into a seated position, groaning.

"Creators…" Erin murmured from her perch diagonally across from Donna.

Only Seith still stood, his eyes so wide open they appeared as though they were about to leap from their sockets. Small crackles of green light still played around where he gripped the staff. Even as Donna watched, the embers that were eyes of the little dragon carving atop the staff died to dullness.

Everyone, everything within several feet's radius of where the dragonling had been, was painted in gore.

"Do you want to give us some warning next time?" Donna managed, yet she couldn't help but crack a grin. She was alive. Whole. Somehow. In pain, yes, and possibly bruised and contused to the Abyss and gone, but she lived – thanks to Seith.

Seith shook his head then noticed the state he was in. "I think I'm going to be ill." He crouched and started retching.

"Any chance of you magicking up some water?" Fiann asked.

"Never mind the water," Erin said. "If there's one dragonling, there's bound to be more. And if there're dragonlings, it means the high dragon is not far from here."

Donna slid onto the ground but couldn't quite find her footing. Her right knee was on fire and for some reason she was shaking. _Fear, relief. Oh, right_.

Fiann groaned, got to his feet, and clambered up so that he stood at the epicentre of where the dragonling had been; it was the only gore-free patch in the area. "I figure we've an idea of what to expect. We proceed carefully."

"And if there's another one? Or two? What are our chances then?" Erin sniped.

"We'll deal with the problem as and when it arises," Fiann said. "We know what to expect. We can scout ahead."

"This one came from up there." Erin pointed up.

Fiann pinned Seith with his gaze. "Lad, do you think you can cast a barrier after that? That you can be prepared for the eventuality?"

Seith nodded. "I – I'm fairly certain I can."

" _Fairly certain_ isn't good enough," Fiann said.

Seith hissed in what Donna assumed was frustration. "Give me half an hour to recover my manna, all right?

"You have half an hour. Take another if need be."

"Fiann, this is ill advised…" Erin said.

"We've come this far," Fiann said. "Months of planning have gone into this expedition. I can't give up now."

"We can come back tomorrow night, maybe bring two of Lieutenant Haye's men for backup," Erin said. "Be sensible about this!"

"We're almost at the top. Just a little bit further. Just to do a recon. Then I promise we can turn back."

"This is ill-advised," Erin said.

"You forget," said Fiann, and his voice was charged with unexpected authority, "who's in charge of this expedition, _elf_."

"And you forget, _dwarf_ , that I have years of service behind my back in hair-raising situations such as this, and I say that you're making a mistake."

Seith spoke. "I can shield us."

Erin rounded on him. "You're young, untried. This is not your argument. Stay out of it."

"I can do it."

Donna wanted to interrupt but she couldn't tell which side to pick. Erin made the most sense, and Donna didn't relish climbing and then later descending on what was possibly a horribly bruised knee. Yet by equal measure, she felt she understood some of Fiann's frustration. All he'd talked about these past few weeks had been this apparent great discovery waiting for them on top of the ridge. If they could just reach it – dragon or no dragon.

"Thank you, Seith. I trust your judgment. We go to the top," Fiann stated, "we look around. We come back down. That is the last word."

"Fool," Erin muttered. She pulled an arrow, notched it, then started uphill without looking back.

Fiann growled low in his throat, and turned to the others. "The rest of you able to walk?"

Evan nodded. Donna gritted her teeth and placed her weight gingerly on her right foot. A twinge of pain shot up her leg but she did her level best to disguise the limp and start climbing. Fortunately her bow was still whole – just the string had snapped, for which she had a spare – and she found her backpack.

Seemingly satisfied that they were fine, Fiann resumed the climb, his short sword drawn, Seith on his heels. The elf cast one look at Donna, his expression unreadable, then followed after Fiann.

Donna winced with each step but then Evan was next to her, his grip on her arm steadying her.

"Want me to take a look at that knee of yours when we have our break?" Evan asked quietly.

Donna nodded, and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from whimpering with each step.

This was going to be a long night.


	29. Well, that went remarkably well

Chapter 29

Hissing Wastes,

Late Harvestmere

"Idiot," Donna muttered as she eased herself down on a rock. Her knee felt as though it was going to burst.

Thank the Maker they'd reached the top of the ridge, yet that was scant comfort as the wind this high up was incessant, a nasty, wicked wind that cut right through every layer she wore no matter how she tucked her coat. Nevertheless, she'd found a spot wedged between a pile of boulders that offered some respite while the rest of the party went on their recon mission, leaving her and Evan with all their gear.

Evan, bless his soul, was helping her with the laces on her boot. She wasn't sure whether she could lean that far over.

"Going back down the ravine's going to be worse for you than going up," Evan said quietly.

"Please don't remind me," Donna said between clenched teeth as he unlaced the side of her breeches so that he could get to her knee. "Is it bad?"

His fingers were cool on the joint, surprisingly so, but his probing sent sharp jolts up her leg.

"Bruised," he said. "Nothing broken, so far as I can tell."

"No shit." Her despair washed over her. What a predicament. Tears wanted to come but she wouldn't let them. "Can you do anything to help?"

"We can bind it with a poultice, to reduce swelling and lend some support, but ideally you need to keep off the leg for a few days."

They didn't discuss their getting off the ridge, but he caught her eye and grimaced before he set to his work.

"You never mentioned to me that you were adept in the healing crafts," Donna said by way of initiating conversation.

"There was no need for it back in Redcliffe. I'd hoped to never need these skills again."

"Yet you learnt them."

"We… Had need of them. More often than we would have liked, back then."

"What was she like? Your _other_ mother."

He paused in opening a jar, his gaze distant. "Driven." He grimaced. "A lot like Fiann in that respect. She had a way with people that made them feel compelled to follow. She could charm giants, if need be." His laugh was choked.

"You speak of her in the past tense." Donna was headed into dark territory indeed, but she couldn't help herself. When else would she have this opportunity between her and Evan?

"She went off on a fool's errand eventually," Evan said with a shake of his head after a moment's pause. "She sent us back to Lothering once it was rebuilt, said it wasn't … safe anymore for us to be haring about on the trail of ghosts. What she hadn't realised it wasn't safe for us _anywhere_."

"I'm so so –"

"Don't say it!" he snapped. "I don't want to hear it. I don't need your pity."

After that, his emotions were shuttered. He was the cool, aloof Evan she'd grown to despise. Cordial but not familiar as he bound her knee.

There was no fuel to be found, so he couldn't brew her a tea for the pain, but he gave her pellets of some sort of fibrous plant material to chew that were bitter, and made her screw up her face with their astringency. If it weren't for the fact that the results were near immediate, she didn't know if she'd have the wherewithal to chew the misbegotten stuff into a pulp and swallow it down.

Her surroundings were best described as dismal, and despite her bruised knee, Donna couldn't remain huddled, no matter what Evan had said about taking things easy. If she sat much longer, she feared her muscles would seize up. Evan remained watchful, perched like some fey creature atop a rock nearby. He said nothing as she dragged herself onto her good leg and started hobbling about.

"Where've the others gone?" she asked.

Evan peered about him. "Louhan's about fifty paces to the west." He gave a humourless laugh and waved. "And she's just waved at me. Your little elfy friend vanished into what looks like a pile of tumbled pillars."

"You mean there're ruins up here?"

"Of course there're ruins up here. You should sit down, Donna."

"I can't. Need to move otherwise you'll have to carry me down on a stretcher."

He didn't respond, but his pained sigh was abundantly indicative of what he thought about her last statement.

The landscape atop the ridge was weird in the moonlight, like something out of the lurid penny dreadfuls she'd sometimes bought at the market. Pillars had been felled, like giant tree trunks – some massive hall that had once stood here, so far as she could tell. One wall to the east remained – a row of pointed arches still recognisable. She tried to imagine what this must've looked like back in the day before the pale stone was wind-scoured and crumbling. Nothing grew up here save for patches of thorny scrub, and the wind's forlorn voice tore between the stones. All that was missing were some gibbering darkspawn. Ugh. No. _Let's not follow that train of thought._

Donna patted the hilt of her dagger for reassurance. Encumbered by her painful knee she might be, but she still possessed teeth, though she prayed there'd be no need for her blades this night, and that Fiann got what he'd come for so they could turn around and head back to camp before daybreak.

#

Seith couldn't help but wonder what his father knew about this place. So far, he'd been scouting for any inscriptions of any form, but the stones were so weathered he could find only hints of relief work and, in places, fragments that may once have been mosaic work. So much for Fiann expecting to find useful artefacts here. He'd really have to dig, and it was doubtful they had time for that tonight.

Bits crunched underfoot, and he examined the pieces with a pang of regret that he'd not have the opportunity to dream here and see what the place might've looked like at the height of its existence, for surely it must've been splendid.

Then again… He cast a speculative glance in Fiann's direction before he clambered down into a hollow. Maybe the dwarf could be persuaded… Especially in the light of Seith having proven that he was perfectly capable of holding up his end of the bargain when it came to keeping everyone safe.

Seith still shuddered at the ease with which he'd despatched the dragonling. His response to the threat had been instinctual; he'd punched through the Veil and drawn upon the power of the Fade hard and fast. It was not so much that he'd punched the beast with raw power, but rather that he'd brought the power to bear within the creature's heart and pushed outward. He'd meant to swat it out of the way, and while the result had been unexpected, it'd served its purpose.

They were safe, weren't they?

Even better, he'd not inadvertently summoned any demons. Or so he hoped.

Just to be sure, he glanced behind him.

Nothing, of course.

Just cold stars glittering above, the moons casting their pale glow over the landscape of tortured ruins and wind-shaped rock formations. Just what exactly he was looking for, he wasn't sure. That he'd found Mihanin's vallaslin daubed on the rock face in the ravine leading up to this point didn't make him incredibly happy. More mystery for him to pick at, especially in the light that Solas had seemed surprised when he'd dropped the other elf's name. Obviously Mihanin was old – a lot older than Seith would have liked to consider. Just what exactly was his father on about in any case? He was used to secrets his entire life, of subjects broached and deflected, and for the most he'd simply accepted that there were things he wasn't ready to know.

 _I'm tired of being kept in the dark._

That was an honest sentiment he could allow himself, and he was oddly relieved to be out from beneath his father's constant scrutiny, always being judged, always found wanting, as if Solas viewed him the greatest disappointment since the fall of Arlathan.

Which brought him to another thought that he'd come to consider of late. How old was Solas exactly? He'd never questioned his father's authority until recently, had always been content to do what he was told, to abide by his decisions.

But it was the little thing that gave him away – of how he spoke of some of the places he'd apparently visited in the Fade, that appeared too visceral, the knowledge too detailed. As if he'd actually been there. Which in a way he had been through a vicarious apprehension of past events through dreaming. Not to forget the few occasions they'd crossed paths with the one known as Abelas, who had purposes of his own that he'd not discussed with Seith in earshot.

And yet … Mihanin asleep, for many years in uthenera, his symbol cropping up here too, hundreds of years old. The blood magic ritual used to wake him …

The not-knowing of how all these pieces fit together – for surely they must – ate at him like a canker. That Solas hadn't seen fit to include him in his confidence, now _that_ bit deeper. Betrayal. That he'd prefer to see Seith's mother locked in a temporal bubble for all these years; that he'd clearly _known_ what was going on and tried to steer Seith away…

All these thoughts clamoured and made his head a noisy place.

Which was probably why he didn't immediately differentiate the constant screaming of the wind and the ragged screech of something that could only be …

He paused.

 _Dragon!_

"Fenedhis!"

He clambered out of the hollow in which he'd strayed in time to see a large, winged shape blot out a moon as it sailed past. Downdraft from the great, leathery wings buffeted him as the creature let out another unearthly shriek that vibrated right through him and left his ears ringing.

"To me!" someone called – Fiann probably – but Seith couldn't see where he was.

Then the great beast gave off another massive screech that shook the very foundations of the earth and left Seith staggering about as if he'd drunk five pints of ale in quick succession. He was conscious only of a curious numbness, of how the ground seemed to reach up to him.

He came to on his hand and knees as a great gout of flame swept over the ruins, feet above him but the heat was enough to make him gasp and check to see whether his clothing had caught alight.

It hadn't, thanks be to the Creators, and Seith scurried back the way he'd come, keeping an eye on his route but also casting about briefly to see what had happened with the dragon.

The problem with dragons was that they were resistant to magic. Well, most forms of magic. This being a fire dragon was a problem. Apart from his ability to manipulate the Fade, fire _was_ Seith's preference, and the volcanic aurum staff he carried amplified that aspect. While the dragonling had been a fluke, Seith had no such confidence in his abilities to deal with a bigger, angrier problem.

He dodged behind a boulder then peered around. The beast had landed in what once may have been a large courtyard and turned her sinuous neck as she examined the ruins for the trespassers. This close to her, he could see the mottled pattern of her hide, hear how her chest rose and fell like great bellows. Each mighty footfall shook the earth.

High dragons weren't stupid. She knew they were here, could quite possibly smell them. His heart hammered away as if it might burst out of his chest. Seith wanted nothing more than to dash back to the ravine and get as far away as possible from this entire mess.

"I promise I'll spend the rest of my life dreaming in ruins if I can get out of here, Father," he mouthed under his breath.

Then further dismay clawed at him.

The high dragon was between him and the entrance to the ravine, and the way she was turning about, poking her head and sniffing at spots suggested that it was only a matter of time before she found his hiding spot, which admittedly wasn't very good to begin with. Yet if he moved, she might see him.

Where were the others?

His chest tight, he wanted to do nothing more than get sick thanks to the stress of his predicament. No one had ever told him dragons were so big. Well, he'd _known_ they were big, but then there was big and then there was frigging enormous, and that skull stored in the basement of Skyhold, that he'd played on as a small boy was nothing compared to the monster thumping about seeking her prey.

Someone yelled, and an arrow hissed through the air to the north-west.

The dragon roared and turned faster than Seith could've imagined something of that size to move. The tail lashed out and swept down a pillar that crashed into a splintered mess of rock not ten feet from where he lay.

Yet he used the dragon's moment of distraction to dash to an outcropping of boulders five paces away.

Another screech.

He tripped, flailed through the air then fell, where he lay stunned for several heartbeats, expecting the worst. Only the world lit up eerily a little further away as the dragon breathed another explosion of fire.

His palms bleeding and stinging from his scraping fall, Seith scrabbled to his new hiding place, which wasn't all that great, but it was better because there was more solid rock between him and the great beast.

 _Your staff, you fool_.

Seith dragged his staff from its harness. The twisted dragon webbing of the grip was a reassuring solidity in his hands, and his magic flared in response as his connection to the Fade deepened.

The Fade. Of course. A slow grin teased Seith's mouth. While a direct approach might not work unless he wanted to be burnt to a crispy cinder, Seith could try something unusual, something unexpected.

Which might also draw demons, he realised with a grimace.

Yet if he accidentally pulled things out of the Fade, then surely he could put things back where they came from? In addition to squishing _other_ things in there with them? Like dragons…

He was being stupid, foolish, his rational side cautioned. Look at what happened when he'd try to fling aside the dragonling. He'd all but vaporised it. There was no telling what would happen if he tackled a dragon.

Low thuds in the ground betrayed the fact that the high dragon was on the move again, and Seith cringed, tried to make himself smaller than small. A blast of sulphurous, hot air jetted down nearby, and he dared to crack open an eye.

When had he scrunched shut his lids?

Except he found himself being stared at by the largest pupil he'd ever encountered in his years. A membrane slid over the domed expanse and the beast withdrew its head. Lungs sucked in air.

Icy fear slid over Seith and he knew – understood implicitly as though he breathed – that the time for hesitation was over. With a yell, he drew harder on his manna than ever before, and lunged onto his feet, staff at the ready.

#

The detonation was unlike anything Donna had heard before, as if the very fabric of the world had torn. Crackling green lights arced from the tear in the space the dragon had occupied, humming and whipping about like hungry tentacles before they flashed into nothingness.

Then silence so profound it made her ears hurt followed.

The smell of ozone was strong in the air, and Donna crawled out from behind the boulder where she'd sought shelter. Slowly. Carefully.

Yet somehow she _knew_ , she understood implicitly that the threat was gone. Supporting herself on the boulder, she took a tentative step forward then bit back a yelp as fresh pain shot through her injured knee.

Fat lot of good she was doing as a guard. She was the one who needed help.

Should she call out and see how the others were doing? Where was the stinking dragon? That explosion of magic could only mean one thing – that Seith had somehow succeeded in taking out a dragon in one prodigious swoop.

Unless the thing was stunned, and the worst had happened.

Dear Maker no. Apprehension lent strength to Donna's dodgy knee, and she stumbled along, catching herself whenever she was unsteady.

"Seith," she moaned as she approached the blasted area where the dragon had been lashing about.

Deep score marks marred the gravel and the air nearly crackled with the after-effects of whatever outpouring of power had just taken place – so much so that all the small hairs on Donna's neck stood on end.

No dragon. Not even a scrap of hide nor a splash of blood. And no Seith either.

Evan dropped down from a rock and turned on one spot. "Where's the kid?"

"Dunno." Donna's heart beat wildly, and she found it difficult to breathe. "Seith?" she called.

Fiann shouted from the other side of the clearing. "Hulloo there! You guys all right?"

"No thanks to you," Donna muttered and hobbled to a patch where the ground had melted to a glass-like sheen that was still warm to the touch when she laid her palm against it.

"Noooo." Grief dragged at her, and Donna hunched over, hugging herself to contain the sorrow. He'd gone and blown himself _and_ the dragon into nothingness just to protect them.

"He's gone, isn't he?" a woman – Erin perhaps – said to Evan.

Evan grunted a response.

Donna couldn't draw breath.

Gone. Seith, for all his faults, was dead. Like a blade sliced through a thread. Severed. No way to fix, to reattach the life that had been snuffed out.

She'd never had a chance to apologise for being catty to him, to even thank him for saving them from the dragonling earlier.

"Donna," a man said, and squeezed her shoulder.

She allowed herself to be helped to her feet.

Fiann's expression was stricken, his face smudged with soot. She would have found his appearance comical if it weren't for the fact that in a blinding moment her grief was overtaken by a bust of rage more potent than the dragonfire that had nearly incinerated them.

"This is all your fault!" she yelled.

To give Fiann some credit, his attempt to block her punch was half-hearted.

Unfortunately, punching him didn't make her feel any better, and it hurt her hand.


	30. Faded

Chapter 30

Hissing Wastes,

Late Harvestmere

The stillness was so heavy that Seith's pulse thundered in his ears. He stood nose to nose with a dragon, yet the jaws did not snap nor was there fire to consume him. He puffed out a breath, only to see a sheen of condensation form on the dragon's tooth.

Obsidian. The entire dragon stood before him, neck arched, and solidified in obsidian. Or some sort of glassy black stone.

His legs gave in from relief and Seith fell to his knees, still staring, hardly daring to believe that he'd forestalled disaster. He'd saved his friends.

"Yessss," he hissed, and wiped at his eyes, which had become unaccountably moist.

Except…

He took stock of his surroundings. One thing was abundantly clear, he was not in the Hissing Wastes anymore. An unearthly green glow clung to his surroundings and tortured rock spires twisted into the sky at impossible angles. The air was stale, tinged with a clammy aftertaste, like swamp water. Cold.

Unsteady, hardly daring to believe that he still lived – and despite finding himself physically _in_ the Fade – Seith examined the dragon, tapped her with his staff. _Chink-chink_.

Solid stone.

And damn it, if he was hungry… Now how to get back?

That was the problem, wasn't it? He was stuck on the other side of the Fade. Theoretically speaking, he _should_ be able to step out as easily as he stepped in, right?

He drew on his inner focus but was instantly brought down by a crushing pain in his head, like someone had jabbed a dagger right through his brain.

When he came to, he was clutching at the ground like some baby that just learned to crawl.

"Fenedhis!" he spat as he straightened.

So, this wasn't going to work as easy as that. He must've burned through his reserves pulling the dragon through.

A shadow flitted to his left, and he whipped around to see it better.

Nothing. Just a trick of the light, right?

Then again, Seith understood with sick urgency, nothing was quite what it seemed in the Fade. This environment often shaped what it presented the luckless adventurer based on the individual's hopes and fears. _Especially_ the fears.

Another flit from his right had him turning to get a better glimpse there. At nothing. However all the small hairs on his neck and arms began to prickle, as if a thousand tiny fingers were running up his skin.

Apart from the sickly vegetation and peculiar, dark green crystals that mushroomed in patches, there was little else that begged him to remain where he was. Waiting for whatever gathered behind him was not an option either. With his childhood recollection of what his mother had experienced in the Fade coming to the fore, the best was to push onward and pray that he didn't encounter some of the more lethal denizens of this world.

He was small, could hide really well. Surely that must count for something while he tried to regain his power so he could tear through the Veil again?

# # #

All the way back to the outpost, Donna had thought that Fiann would call off the mission. They spoke only in dull tones of getting off the ridge, down the ravine and back to the horses. All care and attention was given to Donna, whose knee was so painful, it took all her strength to stop herself from crying out.

Especially in front of Fiann or Evan, who were both so caring and aware of every jarring step that it was only with great difficulty that she stopped herself from tearing up.

And yet…

The moment they were astride their mounts, Fiann started conferring with Louhan, and from what snatches of conversation Donna could pick up, it was clear he was planning a return.

"He's daft," she muttered to Evan. "One of us has frigging _died_ and all he can think of is finishing his mission."

"It's official Inquisition business. We all knew what we were signing on for. As much as we hate it," Evan said quietly.

"He was my _friend_!" Tears choked her throat. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Oh, Donna-love."

"Don't you 'Donna-love' me, Evan. You're a fine one to stand up and defend him."

"Life's a nasty and brutal." He shrugged.

"What, so we're all going to carry on as if none of this matters? He _died_ trying to save us from that dragon. And now that feelthy idjit is going back up there?"

"You won't be, so why're you getting your knickers in a twist? Money's gone into this venture. People have expectations that need to be fulfilled. Do you think the Inquisitor turned back from any of her ventures if one of her soldiers fell? Oh, whoops, we lost Lieutenant Dingleberry. Let's all go home back to Skyhold in mourning until it's polite for us to try again. Life doesn't work this way. It's not neat, convenient."

"You're an asshole," she muttered. "Both of you."

"Have it your way." He kneed his horse into a canter so that he could ride next to Fiann and Louhan.

"Bastard."

Then she laughed without humour. He really _was_ a bastard. In the literal sense too.

"Hey." It was Erin, who'd ridden up from the back.

"Hey," Donna said, but didn't make eye contact with the elf.

Dawn was already spreading its fingers across the desert, the dunes on either side of them gaining a rosy glow as the night fled.

"How's your leg?" Erin asked.

"Hurts."

"We'll be back at the outpost soon. Not much longer now. I've got a tincture we bartered for from some Dalish elves out in the plains. It'll knock you out but it's going to help reduce the bruising."

"It's not going to bring Seith back."

Erin sighed. "That it won't. And I'm sorry this has happened. This is a dangerous job, and bad things happen to good people all the time. I'm sorry it was Seith. He was so young, had so much to look forward to."

Donna's tears started then, and her chin quivered, but she didn't let go of her emotions. Instead, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist, hating how the grains of sand abraded her skin. "Thank you."

"If it's any consolation, you'll have some time to rest up and recover. Fiann's got a reputation of finding exactly what he's looking for and then, before you know it, we'll be out of here and back at Skyhold."

And she'd leave the closest person she could name as friend, besides Evan, that is, behind her. She couldn't quite extend the same honour to Fiann – not the way that she felt about him at present. She'd more as likely kick him in the nuts.

"Why do I always give my heart to assholes who bruise it?" she asked Erin, not expecting an answer.

Erin was silent for a while, with only the continued conversation from ahead counterpointed with the _clop-clop_ of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed dirt.

When Erin spoke, her voice provided an unexpected holt out of Donna's misery.

"I loved a Dalish boy once," Erin said. "My clan attended a gathering a few years ago. I was young, only sixteen. I thought I was the bear's whiskers back then. A hunter for my clan. I had it all planned out. Tuelenas was the son of the first. We flirted with each other all the time, were often in competition when it came to archery. It was a peculiar sort of rivalry, one that inevitably led to us matching ourselves in other ways.

"At that gathering, I honestly thought he'd have spoken to his mother, who'd have arranged for a bonding. I mean, it was all so blindingly perfect, so obvious. We were meant for each other. My mother was already talking as if she was going to be made a grandmother…"

"Except," prompted Donna, when Erin didn't immediately complete her story.

Erin puffed out a heavy sigh. "Except that all that spring and summer, Tuelenas's parents had already arranged that he would be bonding with the daughter of another clan's keeper. As it turned out, he'd known all along that he'd be leaving our clan after the gathering. There was a big ceremony as four other couples were bonded.

"I cannot even begin to explain my abject mortification. He'd _known_ , all that time, and he'd not bothered to discuss it with me. And I'd been babbling like a fool to everyone who'd hear how much I loved him. His parents had known, and yet had not spoken to mine. At the time, if he'd come to me after the ceremony, I'd still have run off with him. Of course he never did. I couldn't find it within myself to congratulate them, nothing. For all I know, they're still busy making babies among the aravels."

"How did you end up in the Inquisition?"

"Some of Leliana's agents came to speak with our keeper. I didn't have any other prospects – no man of our clan would want me in any case – so I spoke to my parents and the keeper, and it was arranged."

"Have you never loved another?" Donna immediately regretted asking.

Erin's laugh was sharp. "Oh, dalliances a-plenty. I've no lack of lovers, but I left my faithless vhenan in the Dales. So, I guess, what I'm saying is, there's no real comfort. The idea that you meet the one you love and spend the rest of your life with them is a story you'd find in one of those romance serials. You really just have to look out for yourself in this world, and take comfort where you can, because tomorrow…" She gave another yap of laughter. "Tomorrow you might be dead, and then what? Do you want to have wasted your entire life pining after someone who wasn't worthy of your affections?"

# # #

It was difficult telling how much time passed in the Fade. There was no sunrise, no sunset, just this ever-present green gloom of twilight. Yet Seith was hungry, and there was nothing he dared to eat. What water he did find lay in shallow, stagnant pools filmed with oil, and there was absolutely no way that he'd allow himself to slake his thirst from something that was liable to kill him. He didn't dare stop too long, because as soon as he did, he sensed how the shadows behind him slithered and hissed, and he fancied that someone called out his name.

Not quite like the old days, but then again, he wasn't in a mood to find out more.

At one point he encountered the remains of what might've once been a villa, which looked as if it had been unceremoniously dumped by a careless giant.

Drawn on by curiosity – and he really did have nothing better to do but explore – Seith investigated, and was glad he did so because he felt less exposed the moment he stepped over the threshold. The walls were covered in murals whose colours were still vibrant, and he wandered passageways lined with mosaic-covered urns.

The location was unlike any he'd encountered from his dreaming; it seemed more vibrant, alive somehow. Abandoned it might be, but the stately residence had an air of expectancy, as if it waited for its master to return at any moment.

He was drawn to the kitchen, where he found food in perfect condition – as if the cooks had suddenly departed mid-preparation. Hungry, Seith tore into succulent roast duck and helped himself to a half-jack of apple cider. The bread was soft and white, and still warm from the oven. All the while, he listened and watched, but no one came to complain about his presence.

He could well imagine that Solas would lecture him for meddling with anything in the Fade, yet he had no idea how long he'd be on this side of the Veil and he was willing to take the risk. After all, he'd cheated death once already with the dragon; what would it hurt to court disaster by partaking of nourishment?

Or at least that's how he could continue justifying it to himself while digging himself deeper and deeper into this realm. Solas's expression of disgust, although entirely imagined, managed to bring a smile to Seith's face as he bit into a perfectly crisp, green apple.

There were stories he remembered from his childhood about the penalties of eating magical food, but he was feeling reckless, fatalistic even. What more could possibly go wrong? For all he knew, he might already be dead and this was all just a dream.

However his stomach soon felt full enough and vitality returned to his limbs, and he continued his explorations of the villa, trailing from one ornate room to the other. He nearly crowed with delight when he found the library, which was filled with racks and shelves stacked to the ceiling with scrolls bound volumes. How ancient was this place? So far as he could tell, all this predated printed material which meant it was rather old indeed, and written in an archaic form of Elvhen he struggled to decipher. Would that he could spend more time here.

A desk and chair stood in a prominent position in the chamber, still piled with piles of scrolls and stacks of parchment. Even clay tablets that had been pressed with a strange, triangular script and sheets of what appeared to be some sort of plant material akin to paper, but with a definite grain. Seith marvelled at all of that but then his curiosity drew him to try the desk's drawers. Maybe he'd discover further clues.

The first drawer provided him with a variety of writing utensils – quills and fountain pens of an unusual design, in addition to many bottles of ink. Another drawer was filled with fine parchment, soft to the touch that just begged to be filled. Yet another drawer made him smile quietly to himself. Smaller, bound volumes – of the type he'd seen in the Skyhold library brought in from distant places. The bindings still seemed new, and whoever had made them had gone to great pains to create objects of beauty – finely tooled leather, with gilded words inscribed, dates he assumed.

Except when Seith opened the first, he swore and nearly dropped the volume. There, unmistakably in his father's handwriting, was Solas's name. Hands shaking, he dragged out two or three other volumes, only to be greeted by the same, flowing script.

He sat back on the chair and breathed out, perplexed. "I don't understand."

Problem was, the Fade could be deceptive. How much of this was real? How much was a construct of his own needs? However, what if this all _was_ real?

Yet all those little clues over the years added up and he didn't like the conclusions that he came to. Those quiet conversations between Solas and Abelas, when they thought Seith was elsewhere or otherwise occupied. His father's control of magic that far outstripped anyone else's. His knowledge of the past, of languages…

Seith shook his head, swore softly once more, and peered about the opulent room, so Elvhen in its décor. Was this a remnant of glorious Arlathan and, if so, did it mean Solas had already been alive back then?

"Exactly _how_ old are you, you old bastard?"

# # #

 **Author's note:**

Apologies that I haven't been updating this story as often as I'd have liked to. Between a career change, freelance editing and prepping for varsity exams, I'm a wee bit busy. Also, my muse has grabbed me by the short and curlies and ripped me off on a tangent writing a rather unexpected piece of Solavellan wangst that I suspect is a story I need to write purely to work some of the bad taste of Trespasser out of my system. So, if you're in the mood for something in that vein, consider giving _Ma Vhenan Suledin_ a try: s/11519363/1/Ma-Vhenan-Suledin

Do let me know what you think if you do.

Your feedback means the world to me and keeps me motivated.


	31. All it Takes is that First Step

Chapter 31

Late Harvestmere, Hissing Wastes

Donna's knee pained her for three days after the incident involving the dragon. Not to mention that it had been her right hand that she'd bruised when she'd punched Fiann. Most of the time, she sipped the foul tea Evan had instructed her to drink and, when that didn't work, she chewed the horrid pellets he'd supplied. The combination of herbs had, as she perceived it, a blessed soporific effect, and for most of that time she was plunged into deep sleep.

And there was some truth to be told that in sleep lay a measure of healing, because every day that she rested, her grief became a little less. After the second day, she'd cried herself out, though she still found herself glancing about the camp expecting to see the young elf. Perhaps meditating, or paging through one of the journals Fiann had brought with for them to record their findings.

Fiann, Evan and the remaining elves spent their nights up in the ruins and slept during the day, and the waking times that overlapped were few. Which was perhaps a good thing by Donna's account. She still felt a helpless, simmering rage whenever she laid eyes on Fiann and, as if he knew what was good for him, he steered clear of her. Yet he kept drawing her gaze. She couldn't help herself, and hated herself for it.

The damnable dwarf was all business, ordering about the soldiers and the others while they catalogued their finds. Pottery shards, beads, scraps of rusted metal. All rubbish, so far as she was concerned. So much for any glorious discoveries that Fiann had been hoping for. Elvhen or even dwarven artefacts, ha! They were probably weeks or months too late to find any fabled treasures nor ancient relics that would be of any use to them or the Inquisition.

Evan at least was warmer towards her than he'd been in ages. Seith's demise hung like an unspoken malediction between them, and she suspected that he might feel guilty for not having done more. As if he could have protected them from a high dragon. Instead he brought her mugs of coffee, inspected her knee, and offered her an abbreviated version of what she'd missed. Which wasn't much, and just served to make her angrier for having agreed to come along in the first place. Her work, praise be to the Maker, kept her waking hours occupied, and for that she was beyond grateful.

Not only that, but their time in the Hissing Wastes was coming to an end. Donna longed for a bath; she barely remembered what it felt like to immerse herself up to her shoulders in water. It was hardly a consolation that they all smelled equally bad, of horses, sweat and leather. Not to mention that she'd resigned herself to the fact that she permanently had sand _everywhere._ There was no helping that.

On the last night that Fiann and the others were due to leave for the ruins, the dwarf came to see her. Or, rather, he found her in a situation where discussion was unavoidable, as she was returning from the latrine pit – damned awkward.

"Hey," Fiann said.

Donna paused, lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the westering sun.

Fiann stood haloed by the light.

"What?" she asked, but she was too tired, too numb to put too much venom in her words. Her anger had fled and left her empty, ragged around the edges.

"I know this has been difficult for you. I just wanted to apologise from my side. I don't have any excuses for being …"

"A difficult piece of work," Donna supplied for him.

"Um…" He trailed the toe of his boot in the dirt, kicking at small pebbles.

"Look, Fiann, we don't have much to discuss. Things haven't worked out, they _aren't_ working out."

"They haven't," he agreed. "But…"

"But what?" Donna bared her teeth at him. "You're hoping that when we get back to Skyhold we can just smooth things over, pretend like none of this ever happened? That was my _friend_ out there who died trying to save us. And you behaved like a tit about it. Seith wasn't just some footpad or pawn. He was my _friend_."

"I know. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry won't bring him back."

"I'm aware of that." He sounded exhausted, resigned.

Problem was, Donna couldn't stay angry with him. She'd had enough time to think things through. Erin didn't blame the spymaster back in Skyhold for the fact that her fellow agents sometimes got killed when they were out on missions. Donna being, well … still relatively new to this whole business of getting into dangerous situations … simply hadn't prepared herself fully for the realities they had faced. And probably still would face.

She huffed out a breath. "Look, Fiann, I'm sorry that I reacted with so much anger. I probably shouldn't have come along. Going out in the field is vastly different from playing hired goon at a tavern to keep out the riff-raff. I … I let my emotions get the better of me."

He nodded. "It's … Understandable. This entire situation has been less than ideal. I've been acting like a dictator, thinking my team is invincible when clearly, I've been remiss for expecting everyone to handle themselves and stressful situations equally, especially since you may not have received the same training as the Inquisition soldiers."

Fiann wiped his brow, his hand shaking. Either he was tired or truly contrite, or maybe a mixture of both.

Donna couldn't help the cough of wry laughter that escaped her. "We're not really good at this, are we? We keep having to start over."

Wild hope flared in his eyes, and he stepped forward and grabbed both her hands. "I keep thinking that it's probably for the best that we don't see each other, that we're toxic for each other, but then …"

"We haven't been good for each other," Donna agreed. "You're an arrogant sod and my temper gets the better of me –"

"But the mere thought that when we're done with this and go our separate –"

Donna shut her eyes and swallowed hard. Thedas was a big, wild place. It was all too easy to lose touch with people. They would return to Skyhold soon, she'd complete her writing up of the journals, get paid and then… Then what? She'd leave for Kirkwall, and finally go track down her father like she'd always meant to. If there was one truth she'd learnt the hard way over the past few days was that people could be snatched away in a heartbeat.

Fiann cupped her face with his work-roughened hands, and she leaned into him, pressed her forehead to his. Her vision was unaccountably blurred, and a single tear streaked down her right cheek.

"Boss?"

They jerked apart and Fiann spun around to glare at Erin, who'd in typical elven fashion approached them so silently they'd not noticed her.

"What?" he snapped.

Erin's expression was mostly unreadable, but Donna fancied she saw a glint of amusement in the elf's eyes.

"You said to come get you when we're ready to go." Erin jerked her thumb back towards where the horses were picketed.

"Ah… Right." He peered in the direction she'd indicated almost as if he'd expected a full-grown dragon instead of their mounts.

"I'll… Ah… Let you finish here," Erin said with a smirk before she turned to go.

Donna sighed, shook her head. "We'll talk about this later, all right?" _When you're not about to go get completely distracted by bits of broken pottery_ , she wanted to add.

"I'd like that," Fiann replied, and some of his roguish charm bled through and dropped the cares from his face.

Donna smoothed a tendril of dark hair from his eyes. "And you be careful now, you here?"

"Always."

She felt the ghost of the kiss he'd placed on her forehead for a long while after the party had left.

#

"He's impatient, won't admit he's secretly frightened. I can help. I can show him the way back."

Seith gave a small yelp and turned to face a young man whose face was hidden beneath a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat. He was perched on rock and peered down at Seith, poised to leap at an instant.

 _Cole. His name is Cole._

It felt like a lifetime ago, when Seith had been a small, weak little boy preyed upon by others. "I'm glad to see you," he said, and tried to hide his alarm.

"Scared. There's no reason to be scared. I can help you so that you can help _her_ get out. She's afraid, so very afraid, and I can't help her. He locked her away to protect his plans, but it's not right. She can help him too. He doesn't need to break everything."

Seith frowned, leaned back against a pillar of stone, and squinted against the diffused light that haloed Cole. "What are you babbling about? Who are you talking about?"

Cole jumped down, and his landing hardly made a sound on the gravel of the pathway Seith had been following through the ravine. "Come."

The spirit started back in the direction Seith had been going, away from the villa, and Seith hurried after.

"Wait!" he cried. "I've just come back from there."

Yet Cole didn't wait, didn't offer further explanation, and the landscape that Seith had assumed would be the same, would lead back to the peculiar villa where he'd spent what felt like an eternity digging through his father's old things, had been replaced by a fractured landscape where noxious mists clung to still, stagnant pools of water carrying a rainbow sheen.

The spirit remained five paces ahead of him at all times, rushing headlong and somehow avoiding stepping in the water. Seith wasn't so lucky splashing after, but he didn't pause in his pursuit. Oddly enough, he didn't tire, and felt he could continue for a while yet when Cole eventually halted. Seith stopped and nearly overbalanced. They stood on the edge of a precipice.

"Creators, Cole. Where have you brought me?" Seith asked. The chasm was so deep he couldn't see the bottom.

Swirling grey-green clouds flashed lightning below, and for a moment he fought the impulse that the world was upside down and at any moment he'd fall _up_. The disorientation vanished when Cole placed a hand on Seith's shoulder.

"He has a rare power, more precious than any, to pierce the Veil and step between worlds at his will, but he has much to learn. I will show him what he must do so he doesn't tear holes he cannot repair."

"You're talking about me, right?" Seith said.

Cole continued gazing across the abyss. "You'll need to jump."

"What?" Seith took a step back, and swallowed the bark of laughter he'd almost let loose. "You're not Cole. You're some demon sent to kill me." He reached for his staff, even though he was well aware that any magical results would be unpredictable at best.

"He doesn't trust anyone, least of all himself."

The spirit turned to snow right before Seith's eyes yet the ghost of Cole's touch lingered.

"Madness," Seith spat, but he couldn't tear himself away from the edge of the precipice.

The Fade was pliant, often reflecting the dreams and desires of those who walked in it. Which made it doubly dangerous for any seeker to discern the true nature of that which they'd found. Seith's hand strayed to the book he kept in his satchel. Chances were good the journal was just a figment of his own desires to know more about his past. It'd vanish the moment he set foot outside the Fade.

That's if he ever figured out how he'd managed to step through in the first place. Each occasion had been pure dumb luck, brought on by stress. Just like what had happened with his mother that time in the Western Approach when she'd dragged everyone down with her into Nightmare's realm.

And if he jumped, let go of that overly rational part of himself? Would he tear a hole right back into reality? Or would he end up wandering the Fade for an eternity? That was, if he didn't suffer the sheer mortification of Solas finding him first, which was always a possibility.

"Oh, Fenedhis," Seith muttered.

He jumped.

 **Author's note:**

I apologise profusely for the horrible delay. I've had a bunch of stuff on my plate – like exams, gigs, film industry and advertising deadlines, preparing a novel for a publisher's open door submissions period and also just having well-deserved time off at the end of the year. Life is never dull here. Also, I may not be quite sane. I still have a few twists and turns in Donna and Seith's story; I just needed time to get my head straight on a few kinks because they're sharing space with my current Solavellan/Abavellan wangst that I'm writing simultaneously (don't ask, I don't know how or why I manage to twist myself into a knot with these things). Feel free to go check out "So long as I have Breath to Give" that's also up here on my profile.


	32. The Plot Curdles

Chapter 32

Late Harvestmere

"We've sent a raven; it's the best we can do," Lieutenant Haye said.

Donna clenched her teeth, wanted to jump up and down on the spot. "We need to send a search party!" Damn the man.

He looked up tiredly from the desk, and the wind whipped the tent flaps so that they rattled. "And leave the outpost unguarded?"

"Fine! Then I'll go myself."

She was about to leave when he spoke. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, agent." His fingers rasped on his stubbled chin.

She wanted to cry, to scream. All she managed was to squeeze shut her eyes momentarily and draw a ragged breath. "Fine."

"You will depart for Skyhold with the next supplies wain when it pulls in then deliver a full report to the spymaster. That will be in approximately a week. During that time, you will complete what work you still have. The orders Agent Drazek left were quite clear in the event that some misfortune befell the group."

"You're not even going to look." Donna bit off the words. "You don't know for sure."

"It also states here – a week without contact." He pointed at a page covered in Fiann's unmistakable scrawl.

"He may have signed his own death warrant but I'm not going to let him go through with it," Donna murmured.

"They had water for a day, at most, if they were careful."

"Then we should have gone sooner!" She wanted to cry, had to hold herself back from thumping the battered trestle table that served as the desk. Her heart thudded, on the verge of exploding it felt like.

A week. A damned week. She should have acted on her impulse to go investigate sooner, three days ago, even if it'd meant going on her own. Lieutenant Haye would be watching her now.

Evan. Fiann. Erin – gone. Just like that. Along with Seith, _everyone_ she'd valued.

No one was expendable. No one.

"Damn this Inquisition."

Lieutenant Haye gave a soft, amused snort then continued filling out his report; he'd no doubt have a few choice things to note about her insubordination, but Donna was way past caring.

She stepped out of the tent and blinked back the day's brightness. Andraste's tits, how was she going to go about her stupid rescue mission? Surreptitiously she started collecting the things she thought she'd need – a few medical supplies, dried rations. Fortunately she kept her water bottle next to her desk, but she'd wait till sunset before she pilfered an extra one from the supplies tent.

All she had to do was wait until nightfall –

Shouts from the southern perimeter drew her from her reverie, and she hurried from the relative shelter of her tent to find out what the hullabaloo was all about.

 _There_.

Her mouth grew as dry as the hard-packed dirt. The air above a small outcropping was shivering, like a heat mirage but tinged with green, coruscating light. Fingers of lightning struck out then sucked away and a low crackling set her teeth on edge. Even as Donna watched, a bright fissure tore the sky in just that spot then, as quickly, snapped shut and vanished after it spat out a slight figure who tumbled ass over teakettle down the slope.

Seith's name tore past her lips even as Donna's feet started moving. She stumbled once, caught herself, then hurtled across the intervening space.

"Seith! Seith!" _Maker yes! He lived! Somehow, her friend lived!_

He staggered to his feet, staff clutched before him as if he'd ward off demons. He was perhaps a bit thinner but otherwise whole, and Donna hugged the youth to her until he squirmed.

"I thought I'd lost you!" she cried. Her vision blurred with tears.

"All right! You can let me go!"

Donna stepped back and dabbed at her eyes. "You went..." She gestured helplessly at the now normal sky. All signs of his dramatic entrance into the material world had vanished.

He blinked about him. "Let's get out of this heat then I'll tell you and the others about what happened. I'm absolutely parched. Please tell me there's something else other than brackish water in this place since I've been gone."

"There's something I need to tell you," Donna said, and she grabbed his arm to stop him from stumbling on the uneven ground.

He glanced at her from beneath his thatch of messy black hair. "What?"

"Let's get to the shade. Quickly."

Lieutenant Haye was waiting for them when they reached the common area. Apart from his eyes bulging slightly, he seemed to be taking Seith's sudden reappearance remarkably well.

"Agents," he allowed. "Come see me in the office."

"We'll come to you in a moment," Donna said. There was no way she was going to allow the human to badger Seith when he looked as if he hadn't had a square meal in days and could use something a little stronger than water to give him a little vim. "Seith needs food."

She could feel the soldier's gaze following them as they went to the mess area, which was no more than a tarpaulin shading the crates containing their supplies. How much could she get away with? She wasn't in charge of the expedition. She was _just_ an agent, and she felt her face twist into a scowl she had to fight hard to return to a neutral expression.

Donna sat Seith down on a crate and passed him some beef jerky while she gathered a few biscuits and still-warm leftover stew from lunch. While he wolfed down his food – she really couldn't interrupt him with questions he was _that_ hungry – she went and fetched him a half-cup of perry.

"Don't eat too quickly," she chided and sat on the crate opposite him. "You're going to make yourself sick."

He paused, teeth bared in a sharp grin. "How long have I been gone?"

"Almost a fortnight."

He paled, and wiped at his dirty face with an equally grubby sleeve that smeared soot over his cheek. "It was a day and a bit for me. Or it felt like it." He slurped the water, grimaced, then downed the proffered perry, which made him splutter.

"What happened?" Donna was frantic to tell him about the others going missing but Seith's story was just as dramatic and needed to be heard. Few had ever been able to physically step in and out of the Fade at will. The Inquisitor had been one, and see where that had gotten her.

"The dragon. I somehow dragged her with me physically _into_ the Fade, only by the time I got there, she'd turned into some sort of shiny rock, like obsidian." He took another bite, chewed and swallowed.

"After that, I wandered about. I found… I found a place there that may have belonged to my father."

He hesitated, as if he thought better of what he was about to say, and Donna didn't prompt him because she caught a flash of old pain in his eyes.

"And then?" she asked.

"There was…" He sipped the perry, sighed, then put down the mug. "There was a spirit I'd met before, many, many years ago. You may even have heard of him."

Donna gestured at him to continue.

"Cole."

"But he went missing –"

"When my mother went missing, yeah."

"Did he have anything to say?"

He shook his head and hunched down.

"You didn't think to ask, did you?"

"No." Seith said the word so quietly, he barely breathed it.

"You're not going to like my news either," Donna said. "But I think you need to hear it before we go see Lieutenant Haye."

"Where's –"

She held up a hand, swallowed hard. No tears. Not now. She had to remain composed. "They went off. I had an injury to my knee so I had to stay behind. One last expedition, Fiann said." Her eyes became scratchy and she wiped at her face with her wrist.

"When?"

"A week ago. And now… I stupidly told Lieutenant Haye that I intended to go look for them but he's packing me off to Skyhold on the next available transport. When it arrives."

"They haven't even gone to look?" Seith's expression was stricken.

"Not enough to send a search party _and_ hold the outpost. Apparently."

Seith nodded, as if he agreed with her. " _We_ need to go."

"Tonight still."

"We'll sneak past the guards."

"How're we going to get the horses?"

"I'll create a diversion."

A soldier came to fetch a canister of water and they both fell silent, Seith concentrating on shovelling the last of the stew into his mouth. "Right," he said as he wiped his mouth. "Let's go see the man. Get this over with."

Interrogation was a mild description of the next two hours. Donna had to grip her knees hard to stop herself from yelling at the lieutenant as he asked one leading question after the other. Seith stared stoically at the human and answered each question in such deadly calm tones she worried that Lieutenant Haye might spontaneously burst into flames.

Somehow the human just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Seith had slipped into the Fade and returned to tell the tale. Not only that, but he seemed to be convinced that Seith had had something to do with the others' disappearance. For a while she had the very real fear that they'd both be clapped in chains until that wain arrived, but in the end, when her sweat had caused her jerkin to get stuck to her armpits and her arse was on fire from having sat so still, the human relented.

"Get out of my sight, both of you," he said with such weariness Donna almost fell out of her seat.

"That sucked," Seith murmured once they were out of earshot.

Donna rubbed at her arse. "I feel like I'm twelve again and just got caught scrumping apples from our grumpy neighbour."

Seith paused and eyed her. "Actually, I can well imagine you were scrumping apples, but I'm having a hard time seeing you climb a tree."

"Hey!" she said in mock-outrage.

"Heh." He surveyed the camp, one hand twirling absently in his shoulder-length black hair which seriously needed both a wash and a brush.

"Now what?" Donna asked.

He squinted at her. "We plot, I guess."

#

Sunset seemed to take forever to occur, and it was difficult for Seith to pretend that the two of them _weren't_ up to something. The soldiers fortunately gave him a wide berth wherever he went, and suffice to say, he couldn't blame them. Fenedhis, he'd even caught one of them making an ancient Alamarri sign for warding off evil out of the corner of his eye.

Did the stupid shemlen cling to such old superstitions?

Didn't surprise him.

So he fretted, made himself visible while Donna snuck about gathering supplies. Distract them, she'd said. Well, he distracted merely by being under eye, and if they thought he didn't hear the whispers about his accursed parent and the fact that the son probably followed in the footsteps of the father, then they were really, really stupid and deserved to be hoodwinked.

Traitor.

Was Solas really a traitor?

Seith's fingers strayed to his sling bag, to the book he carried there that he daren't take out and examine just yet. A villa in the Fade. An _ancient_ villa. He was well versed enough in lore to know that the Fade often showed a person what they _wanted_ to see. But people didn't often make a habit of physically falling _into_ the Fade. Nor did they have the disconcerting ability of somehow folding time and space, and stepping from one point in Thedas to another. By magic.

And this little piece of the Fade had returned _with_ Seith. Too many mysteries. If he confronted his father, what would he say? He could well imagine Solas tight lipped and silent on the matter.

Too many secrets.

Their supper was a tense affair. Seith was still hungry. And tired. The exhaustion had caught up on him during the meal, and Donna elbowed him as he was nodding off over his stew.

Her uptilted eyebrows asked, _Are you all right?_

He should rest. His extremities ached and his limbs twitched uncomfortably. Shadows seemed to shiver at the edge of his vision. Let there not be another rip in the Veil to let Terror slip through. He was a liability, he knew that. Everywhere he went, no matter what he did, some sort of disaster unfolded eventually. Random weirdness, like dragging a dragon through the Veil and turning her to obsidian. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and breathed deeply a few times, conscious of how the low buzz of conversation at the table died away and people shifted restlessly.

 _They're scared of me_.

For good reason.

Donna squeezed his shoulder and he dropped his hands so he could cut a glance at her.

"Why don't you go lie down. You look knackered," she said.

That hadn't been part of the plan. Donna was the one who'd have excused herself. He'd… He'd have gone to create the diversion.

One that he hadn't quite figured out what it was going to be but the way Donna studied him suggested that she was taking charge.

"Are you sure?" He couldn't help but ask her that.

"Yes. I'll come check in on you later."

"Okay then." Reluctantly he got up, excused himself.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed his progress out from the mess tent, and the conversation only started up again once he'd slipped into the shadows.

"I'm glad I'm getting out of here," he muttered.

And the hour or two of dreamless sleep he managed to steal before Donna shook him awake was blessed.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Last Harvestmere

"I have a bad feeling about this," Donna said.

The horse they'd stolen vanished over a dune, headed (she hoped) back towards the outpost.

Seith stood shaking his head. "Look at it this way, if we'd left it hobbled and then something happened to us the poor thing would've been dead anyway."

"And if we do find them, and some of them need to ride, what then?"

"We'll figure something out." Seith didn't sound very sure of himself.

Donna let out a deep sigh then shouldered her pack that should, by all rights, be heavier – they had food between them for three days. Water for two. This was a suicide mission, and the dull dread pounded in her belly. If they turned back now, they could still return to the outpost.

Plenty of night still lay ahead of them, however. Enough time to scramble up the ravine to that accursed plateau where everything had gone wrong the first time.

Seith grunted slightly as he shouldered his pack, and she let him lead as they took those first few steps. Her knee was stiff, but gave a few warning twinges. They'd have to take this slowly. The last thing she needed now was for her knee to get strained again. Especially if Evan wasn't on hand with a poultice or numbing herbs.

The thought that he might already be dead was something that she daren't consider. Fiann was a survivor too. If she firmly clung to those thoughts then they'd be all right. That Louhan was okay. She'd even forgive Erin for being such a bitch.

Not a bitch. Just pragmatic.

Maker preserve them.

Donna had never been particularly faithful, but that night, as they slowly clambered up the rocky gulley, she prayed like she'd never prayed before.

The moons were both up and near full, and their world was lit up almost as bright as day. Without meaning to, she shuddered when they reached the spot where they'd encountered the dragonling. No sign of the fight save for a few scorch marks on the rock. Whatever residue remained after Seith's magic had done its dismal work had either been baked into the rocks or blown away.

They didn't speak. Didn't need to.

The only sign that Seith had any concern was the slight furrowing of his brow as he paused and looked back down the way they'd clambered. He chewed his lip absently, tucked a loose tendril of hair behind one pointed ear then turned to continue their ascent.

Cold air stabbed her lungs, and Donna pushed on after him, straining to hear anything above the crunch of gravel beneath their feet or the mourning of the wind. At the very least, their progress kept them warm, for which she was grateful. Later they'd need to seek shelter from the sun. And they'd have to take care with their water supplies.

Best not to think about the latter.

They reached the plateau close to dawn, and shared a few biscuits washed down with modest mouthfuls of water. The silence – apart from the incessant gusts – pressed down on her ears. No insects. No birds. The environment was as desolate as before – tumbled pillars, crumbling stones all piled haphazardly. And, of course, that wall of pointed arches to the east that had somehow cheated the attrition of time.

"Let's head there," Seith said. "Find shelter before it gets too warm. Maybe look around for clues."

"Good thinking," Donna replied, but she started casting about even as they picked their way through the ruins. "These aren't dwarven ruins," she added after a while.

"Correction," Seith said. "They're not _only_ dwarven ruins. If you look at that section there, that pediment, the bit that's sticking out from beneath the overhang of that rise. Now _that's_ dwarven. You can tell by the squared-off—"

"Seith," she warned, "I think I'd know my own—"

He quirked a brow at her, a rare smile twisting his lips. "You sure about that?"

"I admit I didn't go investigate there the last time I was here because, dragon, y'know."

"We could possibly find better shelter at the dwarven part, though. I wonder who built here first? Who came after whom, and why?"

"What was it like before a Blight destroyed all the life?" Donna wondered.

"Maybe we should ask ourselves why people have sought to build here through the ages," Seith said.

The landscape was deceptive. Though they changed their course, and under normal circumstances would have reached their destination in less than a quarter of an hour, their progress was slow. Paths petered out. They were faced with scrambles, dead ends even boxed in by walls of sheer stone. Often they had to retrace their steps. The plateau was a maze.

"No wonder they spent so much time here," Donna said once they'd taken yet another wrong turn. "They probably got lost half the time."

"I wish we could find some sign of the—" The elf stopped abruptly, staring intently at the stone to his right.

"What?" Donna asked then went to stand next to him.

"There." He pointed at an inscription carved into the surface. "Just disturbing the lichen. These are directions. Written in Tevene."

"Looks like gibberish to me," Donna said. If Seith hadn't pointed out the markings, she'd never have noticed them. But a coil of unease twisted in her guts as she thought back to that mission she'd pulled in the Arbor Wilds where she'd first met Seith.

"Why do we always cross paths with Vints?" she murmured.

"Maybe we should ask why Vints always have a habit of turning up at places of interest?"

"How old do you think these markings are?" Donna asked.

He peered closer, blew a puff of breath to get a tendril of hair out of his eyes. "Within the past three to six months. The scrapings look fresh. Then again, lichen takes forever to grow back so I'm not completely sure."

"That's not very helpful."

"Did they mention anything like this in their notes?" he asked.

Donna shook her head. If anyone had noticed, they'd have reported it. "They were mostly up here while it was dark." She glanced at the lightening sky. "And it's nearly sunup."

"Go figure." Seith sighed. "They should have rather made camp here than."

"Tell that to Fiann when we find him," Donna said, but her words sounded hollow to her. She bit her lip and swallowed back the tightness in her throat.

Seith squeezed her shoulder. "Hey."

If she made eye contact with him, she'd start crying. Instead she stared into the middle distance.

"I'm not good with all this emotional stuff," he said. "And I really don't know what to say or do to make you feel better, but we're in this together, all right?"

Donna swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Yeah. Thank you." Damn it. She looked him in the eye and the world went fuzzy at the edges.

His hug was tentative – Seith clearly wasn't comfortable with the idea of anyone in his personal space – but she had to give him kudos for trying, no matter how awkward this moment was.

She even cried a little, and her friend hugged her closer. His shoulders were thin, and his musculature spare – elves really were like twigs compared to dwarves – but the solidity of the friendship he offered was rock solid.

"I've never felt so alone," Donna whispered.

"You get used to it."

"No one should have to get used to this," she replied.

"It hasn't killed me yet," Seith said with a wry laugh as he pulled back from her. "C'mon. Let's get to those ruins and get some rest so we can do a recce."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming back. For agreeing to this."

He shrugged, looked away. "It's nothing."

"No, Seith, it's not, and you know it."

Water was their main problem. He could plan around the food thing – Seith had some idea of where to dig to find edible tubers, but without a decent source of water, they'd be dead in a matter of days.

He'd left Donna resting in an alcove where the others had clearly made camp. Donna had broken down when she'd found their things, blankets, packs scattered and anything vaguely edible long devoured by scavengers.

He'd given her his share of water then headed out again, slipping from pool of shadow to pool of shadow.

His thirst coated the back of his throat and made his tongue stick to his palate, but he'd had worse. There was that time with Solas, when they'd gone traipsing to some godawful temple somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere in the Western Approach. Weeks of travel. Travel rations which had eventually run out, so that he'd learnt all about eating things no sane person would under ordinary circumstances. None of which seemed to have bothered his father in the least.

But Seith knew how to endure, he had to give Solas that much.

"No scorpions this time," he muttered.

Unless they absolutely had to. Ugh.

Thing was, this entire area _resonated_ , for lack of better description. The Veil was particularly thin, but he hadn't felt the need to burden the dwarf with that knowledge. If he'd successfully done the unthinkable and physically drawn a dragon through into the Fade… He gave a cough of laughter. The bards would sing about his deeds – that's if they lived long enough to share their stories.

Then he sobered. If a high dragon had been stalking about, surely there were more dragonlings?

What if Fiann and the rest had been surprised by more dragonlings? They'd barely survived that one in the ravine. If it hadn't been for Seith's magic they'd have been done for.

Seith reached behind him to clasp his staff for luck. The metal was cool to touch, despite the growing furnace of the day.

"Focus," he whispered. "Water."

What had Solas told him? There were places in Thedas where all kinds of people had built during the ages, for various reasons. Maybe there was a trade route. Or mineral deposits. Or, most likely, water.

Granted, the landscape must've changed dramatically over the years, before and after the Blight. Yet, he held a slender hope his suspicion might offer results. Surely there'd still be water.

He crouched in the shade and closed his eyes, allowed his magic to spread from him like a cat stretching then sunning itself.

Small signs of life stirred, like the lizard scurrying across a rock nearby or a spider that twitched on its web just above his head. He cast out further, breathing deeply, losing some of the sense of his body. There, just on the edge of his hearing, he picked up whispers of voices long gone, sighs, laughter.

 _Too far_ , he imagined Solas admonishing him. Focus.

Dry dirt baked into a hard crust.

No time for the ghosts of a past he couldn't return to but as a ghost himself. Therein lay only madness. Or indulgence. Like Solas, who was so enraptured by ages gone by he'd let slip through his fingers that he couldn't live in the present.

A cold finger prescience trailed down his spine and he had to physically shake himself to rid himself of the thought.

Water.

Now.

Seith inhaled deeply, visualising the moisture he so desperately sought. Maybe his prize lay at the bottom of a deep, deep well. Or a spring tucked away in fissure.

Something tugged his awareness, the same way a fish nudged at a lure, and he rose and padded between the blocks of stone. The crust of sand was hot beneath his feet, the air dry, but he moved unerringly towards his goal.

Maybe a quarter hour, he considered, but a meandering route that would make it easy for the less experienced to get lost.

The ruins he arrived at were dwarven, but the entrance to an ancient thaig, perhaps even dating back to before the first blight. The stones were weathered smooth and smothered in shaggy coats of black lichen that crumbled to the touch. Seith paused, sniffed at the air, and was rewarded with a whiff of faint mustiness, as of moisture. But where?

He went up a short series of stairs, more like a series of broken teeth jutting from a platform, until he stood on what once must've been a courtyard or entryway. Though a pillar leaned over, it obscured a gaping entryway. Like a mouth, waiting to swallow him. Seith shuddered. He'd never quite liked caves, tunnels or any confined space.

Too much like that time in Skyhold, when he'd been trapped in that forgotten library room. Stupid shemlen. Yet those dim, childhood memories of his home welled up anew, along with the promise he'd made to his foster-father, that he'd find a cure for the lingering lyrium weakness.

 _You've done nothing, have you?_

Ungrateful wretch, Seith knew. All on his own in the world, because of his impatience. Not even his father had bothered to make any contact with him since that last stupid disagreement.

 _Enough!_

He'd have plenty of time for fruitless navel gazing once he had helped Donna find her friends. _Our friends_ – he had to remind himself. Yes, he had friends. The notion was difficult to fathom, but he had to admit it was true. Despite himself, he'd grown – dare he say it – _fond_ of Evan. Once he got past the half-shem's seemingly self-absorbed demeanour, that was. Fiann wasn't a bad sort either, for a dwarf. At any rate, Seith wanted to make an effort to like the man because Donna was clearly enamoured with him. Even if he had to restrain himself from wanting to gift him with a swift kick in the rear for making Donna so miserable at times.

As for the other elven agents, Louhan and Erin, he didn't care much for them. Couldn't, really. They gave him the impression that they looked down on him somehow. Perhaps his reputation preceeded him? Seith scoffed at that.

When all this was over, they'd all go their separate ways. He shouldn't care. But he did.

 _You'll be on your own again_ , his shadow reminded him.

 _Fenedhis_.

Instead he concentrated on inching forward, his eyes adjusting to the dimness as he started down the passage, his pulse quickening as he drew breath and smelled definite traces of moisture.

Water. Here.

His feet slipped on slick stone and he caught himself on a pillar before he went down. His staff knocked hollowly on rock. The echo of the impact was swallowed up by the darkness ahead of him. Seith's heart hammered so loud he swore it'd betray him.

The prickling on the back of his neck was warning enough and he held his breath. He was no longer alone. Seith froze, hardly daring to creep his fingers to his staff but craving the contact with the black metal.

A snort of amusement sounded from ahead and a light flared, limning a slim figure in a halo of nacreous light. There was no mistaking the rat's nest of pale hair. "Well, well… You were the last I expected here, wild sprite of the Dread Wolf himself." The elf spoke a twisted dialect of Elvhen, difficult to follow.

"H –" Seith couldn't bring himself to shape the word.

Mihanin. Here. How?

He could kick himself mentally for his laziness, for getting so caught up in the dwarves' doings that he'd neglected to try find out more about the mysterious captive who'd slipped away from them what felt like a hundred million years ago when the Vints had tried to use them all in some idiotic blood magic rite.

No. Correction. Mihanin hadn't been _there_ when it had happened. But he'd been there _after_. With his unknown vallaslin. There were forgotten elves, he'd father had said. Who served gods best forgotten.

"W-who are you?" Seith stammered.

"That's really none of your concern," the elf snapped. "But all I know is that you're not going to interfere here, but in a way your arrival is proving fortuitous. Now that I have a better idea of how _useful_ you can be."

Seith swallowed hard and took a step back. Mihanin stepped forward, and the air between them crackled with power. The elf had no staff, but that didn't mean he couldn't cast some sort of spell.

"I saw what you did with the high dragon. Impressive. And there I'd thought you'd gotten stuck on the other side of the Veil. It's not everyone who is able to physically draw others into the Fade. We need to talk, you and I."

Another two shuffling steps back. Mihanin kept pace. It required all of Seith's will not to turn around and run. Those cold, cold eyes drilled into him.

"I think not," he croaked.

"Where are you going, wolf pup?"

Seith took a larger step back but his back quite suddenly pressed against the broad chest of a man who wrapped strong arms around him, and squeezed so hard he felt his ribs creek.

 _Fenedhis_ didn't even begin to describe his predicament, but he muttered the word anway as he tried to squirm away from the pale fingers that gripped his chin and tilted his face up to those ghostlly eyes that somehow seemed to see right into his soul.


	34. No, wait, it gets worse

Chapter 17

Donna knew she wasn't alone the instant her eyes cracked open. A man crouched mere feet from where she'd curled into a near-foetal position. He had the leathery, lined and dark skin of one who'd spent far too much time in the sun, and the way he leered at her with his yellowed snaggle teeth exposed made her think of the old hound her neighbours back in Redcliffe had owned.

She reached for the dagger at her thigh but her hand brushed against an empty sheath. No time to wonder who this fool was or what he wanted – what bothered her more was that she'd slept through his patting her down to retrieve her weapons.

"Looking for this, lady?" He held one of her daggers carelessly, like one holding a treat for a young child.

With a yell she flew at him, her left hand splayed out while she sneaked in with a short, sharp thrust with her right, coming in low while she hoped he was too distracted by the fingers of her left hand jabbing for his eyes. To give the man some credit, he started to dodge as her fingers stabbed his adam's apple, so that her blow lost some of its power. Her move still had the intended reaction – he staggered backwards, which gave her the opportunity to make a dash for it – straight into the arms of a pair of men who waited just outside the shelter.

Their sweat was acrid, redolent with the sourness of old wine and too many days between baths. That's if they bathed at all.

"Ooh, look what Benno flushed." The taller of the pair leered at her. Maker's arse and bollocks, what was with the bad dental hygiene in these parts? And the accent, she couldn't quite place it – Free Marcher?

Donna lashed out with her feet but with her arms pinned painfully behind her back, she was unbalanced and unable to effect more than just thrashing about.

"Let! Me! Go!" she shrieked. "Seith! _Seith_!" Her scream echoed back at her from the ruined structures and the sun dazzled her. Wherever her friend was, he was nowhere to be found and she hoped he'd managed to escape these guys.

"We're not letting you go, poppet," the tall one with the really, really bad teeth said.

"I'm _not_ your poppet."

A fist connected with her stomach, and all rational thought and breath fled. Then a knee. And another fist until she was doubled over and retching. Her world shrank to a dull shriek of black agony, and when she next figured out when and where she was, she was being manhandled across the bright plaza. Each breath was agony. Damn, had they broken ribs, but further struggle was pointless.

Dare she consider the silver lining? These idiots didn't want her violated or, worse yet, dead just yet. Ugh. Yet they cracked stupid one-liners about some devil brew they were going to drink later, and who was going to win a bet involving gold coins.

From the glare she was dragged into musty darkness, and it took her a few moments for her vision to adjust to the lack of sunlight. Her captors hurried along, all jovial banter gone the moment they'd stepped into the gloom.

The pain from breathing had abated to a tolerable level. She should be grateful that they'd not touched her face, right? Down, down, down they went. Maker's balls, did this lead to an entrance to the Deep Roads? The idea that she would be descend to a place where the sun never reached sent shivers of fear right through her.

So much for escaping Orzammar. Here she was going some place worse.

Presently the passage terminated in a square chamber lit by oil lanterns that didn's so much illuminate but push back wobbly shadows. Someone had set up camp here, with a rough semi-circle of shelters—no more than ragged canvas propped up on spears—to offer a modicum of privacy. The males who hunched around the small fires were an ill-kempt sort who even included a dwarf among their number.

They watched and remarked among themselves as Donna was dragged in then lashed to one of the pillars. Her captors were none too gentle, and her bonds were thin ropes of rawhide that bit into her skin.

Without her daggers, Donna could only glare at the men, which elicited much mirth from them to see her "still so feisty" as one of them had put it none too gently.

"Which one of you sorry sacks of shit are in charge here?" she yelled.

Their only response was more leering laughter, before they returned to their cards and drink. Donna bristled at their nonchalance but what else could she do. Already her extremities were going numb, and Maker's arse, her bruised ribs made breathing next to impossible, not to mention an exquisite agony.

And the place stank. Not just unwashed bodies and dirty bedding, but rotten food and wafts of privy that occasionally assailed her senses. When she saw the men get up then return from a crevasse, tightening their breeches as they did so, she knew all she needed to about what added to the general miasma.

What was this place? What were these men doing here? From where she was tied, she could just make out a number of stacked crates – some open, others clearly either ready to be unpacked or shipped out. She couldn't truly tell. Fiann had spoken of merchats encountering artefacts, which told her pretty much all she needed to know. Perhaps.

The stinking men spoke a patchwork quilt of languages, so far as she could tell. Some Tevene with hints of Free Marcher-accented common. They passed around a botttle of spirits that made them belligerent after a few rounds, but the inevitable fist fight, when it did break out, was swiftly quelled. Then they settled into a sullen broodiness, which made Donna fret. She wasn't dumb. She knew what happened to women at the mercy of bad men.

Yet the men were shifty-eyed and uneasy, and kept cutting glances to one of the dark passages that gaped to her left. As if they were waiting for someone to arrive. Torches guttered and were replaced, and her eyes and chest burned from the smoke. She must've dozed somehow because she jerked straight in her bonds when voices echoed as if from a great distance.

The men sprang into activity – unnaturally so – stacking rolls of bedding, collecting crockery and making a fuss over the contents of the crates.

Obviously their overseer was returning from wherever he or she'd been and they wanted to offer the illusion that they'd been productive. A stab of alarm pierced her. Now she'd find out more about why she'd been mishandled and who was behind their dilemma, and from what she could see, the individual might not be the nicest to be around. With great difficulty she drew shaky breaths and planted her feet as firmly on the ground as her bonds would allow. Her legs were numb, and prickles of pins and needles in her arms made her grimace at the discomfort.

Yet, when the first figure, bent beneath a great burden, stumbled into the chamber, Donna had to bite back a gasp. Despite the layers of grime, there was no mistaking Evan labouring with a crate that he nearly dropped as he placed it next to its fellows. Desperate though, as she was, Donna did not call out to him and prayed that he'd have the wherewithal not to draw notice to the fact that he did know her.

But he looked up at her, and that moment of recognition between them stung hard.

"Donna!" he ran stumbled towards her, amid jeers and catcalls from their captors.

He threw skinny arms around her and pulled her to him tightly, each drawn breath a shudder. "I thought you'd have gone back to Orlais?"

"What? And leave you to whatever ungodly fate you've dropped yourself in?" Donna replied.

"Well, well, look what else the lads have dragged in," a man said. "And you _do_ know each other. That is adorable."

Donna peered over Evan's shoulder to see a white-haired youth – no, an elf – standing hands on hips regarding her. His face was twisted in a sneer, further distored by his deep-red facial tattoos, as he regarded her and Evan with obvious disgust.

She _knew_ this elf.

Donna gasped. "You're that elf we rescued from the Vints in the Arbor Wilds. What are you doing here? Let us go!"

" _That_ elf." He laughed and strode over, studying her and Evan. "Look at how he clings to you, as if you could somehow protect him from me. How pathetic, but then again, what would one expect for one who's a mongrel?" He sniffed and strode over to a table.

That's when Donna caught sight of Seith standing by the entrance. He was possibly just as grubby as Evan, and also laboured with a crate.

"Oh no," Seith said, and dropped his crate.

"Careful with those," the white-haired elf said. "We wouldn't want to accidentally break something of value."

"What's going on here?" Donna asked. "Why're you using my friends as slave labour? And what's happened to Fiann and Erin?"

"An ill-considered escape led them further into the Deep Roads than they expected. Or rather..." The white-haired elf's laughter was chilling. "They went for a long walk off a short road."

Whatever strength Donna had possessed fled, and it was Evan who prevented her from sagging against her bonds.

"I'm sorry, Donna," he whispered into her ear, smoothing some of her hair back behind her ear. "You shouldn't have had to hear it like this."


	35. Revelations

"He's looking for an orb," Seith told Donna.

"A what?" She paused in her grubbing through the debris of the pit in which they'd been sent. The last orb that'd done the rounds had caused untold chaos. This revelation made her stomach churn—beyond the fact that they'd had nothing to eat since their paltry breakfast of hard bread.

"Keep busy," Seith hissed, and cut a glance upward to where one of their guards loomed on the lip of their trench, more shadow than man in the guttering lamplight.

Evan was to her left, carefully chipping away at an urn embedded in the ground. "A Maker-damned Elvhen artefact in dwarven ruins. What next?"

"What was this place?" Donna asked.

"It used to be a temple, I think," Seith said. "The vaults. There was some sort of calamity, and the entire place flooded."

Evan barked out a humourless laugh. "We're basically digging through dry mud, in other words. Centuries'-old dry mud from the Frog bloody Age or something dumb."

"Hey, less talky-talky, more digging down there!" a guard shouted at them.

They laboured in silence until the guard lost interest and vanished from their line of sight. Their work kept Donna focused, kept her from collapsing in on herself in despair. Maker's breath, she had to count her blessings. Evan, whole and alive. Seith, bruised and drugged up to his eyeballs with some vile concoction they'd fed him to dull his magic. Though alive. There was that.

They might all be starving and ragged, and dying for a bit of sunshine, but while they had breath in them, they had hope of escape. If only she could figure out how.

And until she had proof that Fiann and Erin were in actual fact dead, she'd also hold onto the slender hope that they were somehow groping around in these dank tunnels just like she and her companions were.

For the present, they were deep beneath the ground, scratching at the encrustations of an ancient flood with the blunted picks that were counted as soon as they were allowed up the ladder that was sent down after the day's shift. So far as Donna could tell, not all of the other workers were here of their free will either, though they'd been kept far longer, and most of their hope had been replaced by dull-eyed resignation.

Besides, where could they run, even if they did make it out of the warren of tunnels and subterranean ruins? The grim-faced bandits who had them penned up had killed the two who'd tried to escape during the past few days, and Donna was not quite in a hurry to share their fate. Even if they got past the guards, they had the harsh Western Approach to survive, and she had no plans for that. No food. No water. No mounts to outdistance possible pursuit. Grim situation indeed.

How long had they been down here? It was difficult to tell.

"Who _is_ he, exactly?" Donna whispered once she was certain the guard wasn't coming back anytime soon. She meant the weird elf who seemed to somehow be in charge of this entire predicament.

" _He's_ some ancient Elvhen." Seith paused and a shudder coursed through his thin frame. "He seems to think he's a god."

"Ugh. But I still don't get how…"

"When you rescued us," Evan said. " _He_ was there. In the temple."

"He was in uthenera," Seith added quietly. "For all these years, until the Vints brought him back."

"Why?" Donna asked. "And what is the uthen... Thingie?"

"They're grasping at straws now with Corypheus dead. And uthenera is what the ancient Elvhen did when they wearied of this world and sought eternal rest. Kinda like being dead but not quite. When I was with my— _Solas_ showed me a temple once in the Arbor Wilds. There was a woman... She looked like a statue." He paused a moment, as if he wanted to say more, then shook his head.

"Only those Vints' plans didn't quite turn out the way they wanted them to, did they?" Donna allowed herself a small, bitter smile at the remembrance of their daring rescue. "The Inquisition put paid to that quite successfully." Knowing Seith's ambivalence to his father it might be better to steer the conversation back on track.

"That book I found in the Fade at that villa," Seith said with a grimace. "It was a journal. I recognised the handwriting though it was in a form of Elvhen I am not well versed in. Very archaic." He huffed out a sigh. "It belonged to my father. I am certain of it."

Evan started laughing. "And this is where the 'oh, shit' part comes in. I'm surprised you've waited this long to tell her."

Donna halted her work and regarded her friend. "You mean it gets worse than this?" She gestured helplessly around their trench.

"I was going to find a way to tell her, thanks, Evan." Seith groaned quietly and rested his head against the ground. A fine sheen of perspiration gleamed on his brow.

"You all right?" Donna asked. He looked as if he might puke like he had the day before.

"It's that shit they give him to deaden his magic," Evan replied as he shifted across to feel Seith's pulse. "I don't know how much longer he'll be able to hold out. The herbs are not...suitable for long-term use. They damage the liver."

Seith feebly tried to slap away Evan's hand. "I'm fine. Just a bit nauseous."

Donna and Evan traded a worried look, then Evan spoke. "Want me to break the good news?"

"No, I'll tell her."

Donna settled back on her haunches and rubbed at a kink in her lower back.

Seith sucked in a deep breath, his narrow shoulders hitching as he exhaled. His expression when he turned to her was absolutely stricken. "What do you know of the ancient Elvhen god Fen'Harel?"

Donna frowned. "Just that he's some trickster and that the Dalish don't like him much. At least in some of the stories I've read about their customs."

"Then you know more than most." Seith grimaced.

Evan disguised his laugh as a dry, hacking cough and Donna shot him a hard look before she focused on Seith again. "What?"

"My...father joined the Inquisition back when Corypheus raised his ugly face and there was that explosion in the human temple that killed a whole bunch of people. They say he just walked into the camp, presented himself to the Seeker Cassandra and handed over his staff. Said he wanted to help. And for those two and a half years that's all they thought he was. He was my mother's lover and her closest advisor, but there was a bigger secret. He didn't tell anyone but it's mentioned in the journal, just a throwaway comment about how he was secretly amused by the appelation he'd been given. The Dread Wolf. Fen'Harel. The rest of the stuff seems to be merely noting movements of troops, of supplies. Of shifting loyalties."

Donna frowned at him. "That's not proof."

Seith shook his head, his gaze distant. "I know it's tenuous, but it makes sense. You forget I lived with him for ten years before I returned to civilisation. So many little clues, comments. His fixation with the past, with the old glory days. His constant regret about something he'd never talk about. Or the little slips he'd sometimes make in my presence." Seith ran his hand through his hair, and snagged his fingers on a knot.

"He sometimes talked in his sleep. Crying out in ancient Elvhen, in a dialect so archaic that I struggled to follow it. Or sometimes he'd come to ruins, run his hands over the broken masonry and whisper 'ir abelas' under his breath. Like he knew the true story and was so deeply sorrowful he could barely express himself."

"That's still not enough evidence. They could just have been comparing him to the god. Besides, aren't all your people's gods like dead or something? Locked up?" Donna asked.

" _My_ gods?" Seith glared at her. " _I have no gods_. They're all lies. All of them. Your blessed Maker, the Evanuris. All of them are nugshit. Everything ends. We tell ourselves stories about the past all the time until we glorify things that are undeserving of the honour. And it makes sense, this obsession of my father's for things of the past, his constant search for another orb."

"What's hope to achieve?"

Seith gave a nasty chuckle. "Oh, I've had time to think about it, especially now with what that other freak wants us to find. Those artefacts were despositories of great power; they are keys to raising mountains, emptying oceans and, perhaps even tearing down the Veil. We don't know."

Donna shivered. "So, Corypheus had an orb. Your mom destroyed it when she finished him and then Solas left. Just like that."

"Well, he had no reason to stay anymore, did he?" Seith said with such bitterness Donna pulled him to her.

He struggled feebly but she was stronger than him and held him tight.

"Seith, I love you, like the brother I wish I had. Don't go to that dark place. Whatever was between your mother and that...that sod of a father of yours, ancient elven god or not, it's no reflection on you."

Much to her surprise, Evan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder while Seith wept.

"I swear on my mother's left lung," Donna said, "if I get out of here alive I'm going to kick Solas's arse for him. Until the next goddamned age if I have to."

"I'll help," Evan said. "You're not alone in this, ma falon."

"Fenedhis, Evan, your pronunciation is atrocious," Seith murmured.

Two days, three maybe, who knew, their situation had not changed. Whether the guards had become aware that the trio was a little more close knit than before or that their activities weren't yielding enough results, they were split up and paired with some of the other workers in a newly uncovered section of the vast warren of subterranean chambers.

Donna's workmate was a smelly Free Marcher whose name may have been Sid. Then again, she didn't smell that good herself either, so she shouldn't be too judgmental. She didn't inquire too deeply about Sid's past after his first monosyllabilic response, so she kept her thoughts to herself and chipped away at the alcove she'd been assigned. In the light of the one lamp they'd been given, it was difficult to tell exactly what she was working at until she had uncovered what appeared to be a mantelpiece.

The area in which they worked was a series of small, interlocking chambers, by the looks of things. There was no sign of furniture, but she found scatterings of broken ceramics that had a smooth, reddish iron oxide glazing. If only she had access to some of her books, she might've been able to look up the runes, for they were most certainly dwarven—just not any language she could decipher. They were _that_ old.

If she tried to envision this room so deep beneath the ground in what was most certainly a long-abandoned thaig, she pictured it with thick carpets woven in warm, earthy tones. The walls, when she ran her hands over the large tiles, were finely polished schist, clearly not from the area. The floors were cobbles, thousands upon thousands of small quartzite pebbles—the kind one might find in riverbeds—and they'd been painstakingly laid out in concentric rings. Some craftsman must've spent months on this entire section, choosing each stone with care and placing it snugly next to its neighbour before he'd poured in the mortar. To give testament to the quality of the workmanship, the mortar was still mostly intact, and she could only imagine that some of the artisans in Orzammar would pay good gold for these forgotten secrets.

Some dim part of her was proud of this craftsmanship, as if she could somehow reach through the centuries to claim kinship with these long-lost dwarves.

Yet if only she could figure out a way for her and her friends to escape. Their captors were too wary, and that creepy white-haired elf too...well...creepy, for lack of better description. Donna hated the way his gaze crawled all over her when she passed him by, as if he was evaluating her and finding her way beneath his full attention yet necessary to squish like one would end a particularly noisome bug.

"Nug shit-eating, smug, superior—"

 _Snick_.

Donna paused, the pick she was using to chip away at the debris encrusting the mantelpiece having depressed some ancient, inordinately well-hidden lever. A slight breeze shifted the sweaty bangs that had escaped the makeshift hairtie she'd used to keep her hair out of her face.

A hidden trapdoor. In an old fireplace.

Donna wanted to cry for sheer joy as she ran her fingers along the seam of what was a smallish but serviceable door set back in the hearth. Maker's hairy arse, this was... This was gold. She bit back a whoop and checked over her shoulder to see what her companion was up to.

Sid, much to her relief, had his back to her while worked loose debris that seemed to suggest another passageway adjoining this chamber. She returned to her find and inhaled deeply. Moisture. Wet stone. Nothing rotten. The air seemed…clean. Which meant there must be a way out…somewhere. In the dark.

If only she possessed Stone sense. Now that would have been simply wonderful.

A sense of urgency had Donna lurch to her feet and grab her mostly full basket of rubble. "I'm going to go toss this lot," she told Sid, who merely grunted and continued working as slowly as he usually did.

"I'll be back now. Gotta go use the latrine."

Another grunt.

All right then.

She glanced at her basket, set it down, then tried her best to affect a suitably downtrodden air as she went to go find her friends. Maker's arse, let the guards be disinterested or looking the other way. Donna sure could use a bit of luck round about now, because what she was about to do was either going to get them all killed or lost forever in the endless dark of the Deep Roads. To be quite honest, she'd rather chance the latter option than grub about in the dirt for a malevolent weird-ass imp of an elf.


	36. Footsteps in the Dark

"Hssst! Seith!" He barely heard Donna she was so quiet, but he downed his tools and peered into the gloom back up the tunnel in which he delved.

His friend was silhouetted in the opening, the lamplight making her appear like a shadow dancing over shadows.

"What?" he whispered back.

"Quickly. C'mere."

He rose, pausing for a deep breath when dizziness assailed him, then went over to Donna.

"We don't have much time. Evan's already waiting for us. We need to go. Now." She took him by the wrist and half-dragged him along the narrow passageway.

Numbly, he peered back the way they'd come but there was no sign of the guard. Donna must've timed things well. Or knocked out the guard. He didn't want to ask which.

"I've found a way out," she said.

"What?" Hope hit him with a staggering blow and he had to steady himself by pressing a hand against the wall. Escape. He'd see the sun again.

Without warning, she dragged him into an alcove that proved to be an entryway into a set of chambers. A man—one of their fellow prisoners—lay slumped over, with Evan crouched next to him.

"How long will he be out?" Donna asked.

"Ten minutes, if we're lucky. No permanent damage but he'll have a headache when he comes to. He'll wish he were dead." Evan gave a dry laugh.

Seith wanted to ask what they'd done to him, but his tongue felt thick, and he merely nodded. All right then. They _were_ escaping. His fingers twitched. He was missing something.

"My staff," he said. "My father's journal. Mihanin has them."

"We can't go back for that," Evan said. "I'm sorry."

Seith knew if he was completely in his right mind, he'd be more upset about this, but the past few days…nights…whatever, it was so hard to tell, he found it increasingly difficult to marshal his thoughts. He'd tried spitting out that tincture they kept stuffing down his throat but their captors were too wise to his ways.

"You good?" Donna asked him.

He nodded, swallowed hard.

Then they entered another chamber, this one smaller, cosier even. For a moment he imagined he perceived it as it had once been, millennia ago. Perhaps pale, ghostly shapes, going about their business, but then Seith blinked and the vision resolved to the dusty stone pattern inlaid on the floor.

Donna picked up the lamp and dragged them along to what was once the hearth, and this puzzled him until she depressed a section and swung open a panel.

"That's pretty amazing!" Evan said as he hunched down. "And still in such good working order."

"I've already scraped out the worst of it, but whoever built this knew what he or she was doing," Donna said. "We've wasted enough time. Now let's go."

Evan went first, taking the lamp from Donna, and she had him follow. He had to hunch down and was ridiculously glad for their wobbling light as he stepped through.

 _How long before the oil runs out?_

Best not to dwell on that.

Donna stepped through and pulled shut the panel. From this side their exit looked like a false door, like he'd seen in some of the ancient shrines. Blearily he peered about him. Yet another narrow passage, but this one seemed more like a natural cavern with stalagmites and stalactites, and swathes of gleaming flowstone. The air was cold and crisp, and he swore he could hear—"

"There's a river somewhere!" Evan marvelled.

Donna offered them the first smile Seith had seen in a long, long while. "Rivers must flow out somewhere."

"Not to mention water," Evan added.

"Watch out for…spiders," Seith croaked. He didn't want to say it but someone had to be cognisant of some of the dangers they might face.

Whether it was the cleaner air or the fact that soon he'd missed out on the next dose of drug Mihanin insisted he take, or a combination of the aforementioned, Seith didn't care. Within a few hours—it was really hard to tell the time in the near darkness—he began to feel much, much better.

Granted, his stomach cramped something fierce, but his thoughts were more his own.

"Can you imagine, right?" Evan said. "They're going to have absolutely _no_ idea what happened to us."

"I wouldn't count on that," Donna replied. "I don't want to be a complete killjoy, but I suspect all we have right now is a good head start. And we don't even know _where_ we're going."

"Away," Seith said. "That's all that matters now, don't you think?"

"I can't disagree with you there, my friend," Evan said.

They didn't discuss how long the oil would last, but gradually the light their lamp cast grew smaller and smaller, and their cheerful banter diminished with the seeping away of their only source of illumination. Not only that, but sound travelled strangely in this subterranean world. The river's rushing sometimes sounded near then distant. At times Seith swore he heard footsteps and the whisper of voices, but he didn't voice his concerns because he didn't want to alarm his friends. At any rate, every time he paused to listen, he realised the sound might just be their own, multiplied and thrown back to them by their surrounds. At any rate, both Evan and Donna would pause every so often, heads cocked, as if they were listening out for the same, their features pinched tight with worry.

Seith didn't want to voice his _other_ fear: that they might end up starving and alone in this warren. If he had his full capabilities, he might've been able to tear another hole in the Veil and drag all three of them through, but he lacked his staff. And he lacked the power. For now.

Unbidden old memories resurfaced, of him pelting down the little-used corridors of Skyhold, some awful human boy chasing him. Creators, he couldn't even remember the child's name, and yet he'd instilled such fear in him back then. Enough that the demons had smelled his fear when he'd inadvertently torn a hole in the Veil.

It had been dark too, back in Skyhold, though not nearly as frighteningly so as it was now.

And there had been that boy, that spirit-boy Cole. Only he hadn't known he was a spirit at the time (though his father had later told him).

"Oh Cole, what would I do to see you right now, old friend," he whispered.

"Say something?" Donna asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled.

"This is really awful," Evan added.

"It's better than working ourselves down to nothing' with that creepy elf," Donna returned.

"Are you sure you'll still be saying that when the light goes?"

She growled in response.

Seith swallowed back a chuckle. It was either find something amusing about their situation or cry. At least he wasn't alone. There was that, and he allowed himself a small grim smile. Donna stalked on ahead while Evan kept up the rear, a reassuring hand often pressed on his shoulder, and Seith was stupidly grateful for their presence as they made their way down the passageway. It wasn't all horror, was it? Maybe in a few hours he'd have enough power to try summoning help. He could call spirits to him, perhaps. It was a bit of a wild shot but it was worth a try. Especially down here where the Veil flickered at the edge of his senses, sometimes thin, sometimes as solid as ever.

Even if their guttering light was growing smaller and smaller, and the tunnel and the occasional openings at its sides didn't seem to be anywhere near an exit, their situation wasn't completely dire, even if Donna and Evan operated under the assumption that they were all doomed to stray in the darkness until they eventually expired from hunger, thirst. Or got eaten by spiders.

He shuddered.

All right, there was still a chance that no spirit would come to them, that this might even be the case, but hadn't Seith faced down a high dragon and dragged the angry beast right with him into the Fade? What was a bit of stumbling about in the dark? Right?

Another twenty, thirty paces, and their path started sloping further downward—not great—and then their flame spat a last little flutter then gave up the ghost. Donna stopped so suddenly Seith ran into her back, and Evan stumbled over the both of them.

"Watch it!" Evan cried even as he steadied Seith.

Donna gave a ragged laugh as she shoved back at both of them. "I would if I could bloody well see where I'm going."

"Ha. Ha. Now what?"

"I could try summon a spirit to help us," Seith said.

"No!" Donna and Evan responded simultaneously, and Seith jerked back a step, this time into Evan.

"I know the difference between a spirit and a demon, y'know." _And I'm not going to tell you that they're not all that different…_

"It's too risky," Donna said.

"How do you know?" he countered. "Do you prefer to bump around in the dark until we eventually get so lost we'd never get out."

"Look," Evan said. "Oh Maker's bollocks that just sounds stupid. Path is leading down. Air is fresher, right? That means that we're headed to an area where there's movement. No darkspawn."

"Not yet," Donna said.

"So we're just going to walk until we fall into a fissure then?" Seith said. "Or stumble into a tangle of spiders." There, he'd said it. Ugh.

"I didn't say that," Evan replied. "But we can be a little more careful, form a human chain."

"More like a one dwarf, one elf, one hu—" Donna started.

"Argh! You know what I mean!" Evan cried. "You don't have to have a smart mouth about it during a moment of crisis."

"If I don't find something to laugh about right now, I'm going to cry," Donna said.

"Or…" Seith didn't know if it'd work, but it'd be worth a try. "I could summon Veilfire. Granted, he didn't have a focus for it. Usually his father had pointed out braziers that could act as foci. He had nothing but his hand. Seith held out his palm, dragged hard at the Veil and felt for that tell-tale friction that existed at the all-or-nothing point where the Fade and the material world abutted each other. His father had some sort of technical explanation as to why mages were able to activate Veilfire that he'd struggled to comprehend.

But in practice…

In practice it was possible to manifest a small, glowing orb of Veilfire cupped in his left palm. A fierce singing started up immediately in his ears and his pulse hammered, but he'd done it. The little blob of light danced and wobbled above his hand. Sweat beaded his brow and he had the awful sensation of having to think of his left hand as being somehow separate from his body and existing both here and partially in the Fade, but he _could_ do it. For how long, he wasn't certain. Sweat beaded his brow.

Donna and Evan stared, transfixed, their dirt-smeared features turned weird and somewhat ghoulish by the wavering light. It was like watching them underwater.

"All right," Evan said. "I did _not_ know you could do that."

"I can, though for how long I can without a focus… Usually there are braziers and special devices. The ancient Elvhen created them as foci, the same way mages— Ugh. No. Now I sound like my bloody father." He took a step past Donna, peered into the tunnel. "Let's go while I've still got the manna to do this."

Every step was agony for Seith, but he didn't want to admit it nor did he want to let go of that little ball of light. He might not be able to summon it again, and then what? Twice they traversed chambers, and while they didn't have enough illumination to see the height nor fully appreciate the splendour of the caverns, they glimpsed thin fingers of crystals that dripped mineral-rich waters (Seith didn't like the taste, but he was thirsty enough to drink from the puddles).

This must have been some path during the distant past, for they encountered ancient hearths, the soot and ashes long gone, that suggested that other travellers had once rested here before moving along.

It was at the second of these spots that Seith eventually gave in to his exhaustion. He only meant to rest a little while; his left arm had gone numb all the way up to the shoulder. He hadn't meant for the light to go out…

"He's sleeping. Now what?" Evan asked. Judging by the position of his voice, he'd shifted a little closer.

Donna pressed her hand against Seith's damp brow. He was icy cold and his teeth chattered. "Let him rest. I don't think he wants to admit how taxing this really was."

"We're going to die here," Evan said.

"We're not dead yet." Donna tried to stifle her own fear. The dark was solid, pressing down on them from all angles and stifling her lungs. "We'll rest now. Take turns. See how Seith feels when he wakes."

"That's _if_ he wakes."

"Don't be a moron."

Yet she didn't like the way Seith twitched and murmured in his sleep. What if he started seizing? Then what? She'd heard stories about folks who had seizures when they overtaxed themselves. So she sat, she waited. Evan's soft snores soon reached her and she wondered how she could possibly mark the time in this cloying dark.

Donna pulled Seith to her so that she could put an arm around him and keep him warm, and some of his tremors passed and his flesh felt less claylike.

Dwarves weren't supposed to be afraid of the dark, and yet here she was, too afraid even to admit that her heart was trying to hammer its way through her chest. Her traitorous mind whispered that even in bondage, they'd had some food, light—even if they'd been slaves. In her father's stories, the characters were noble, unafraid of dying. They did the right thing, despite great odds. And yet now, when she had convinced her friends to do what she thought was the right thing, she'd doomed them all to a slow death in the dark.

 _Way to go, Donna._

"In the dark, she thinks she's failed everyone, herself, her dream. She is not her father, but his stories make her bolder. She must not lose hope."

"Huh?" Donna straightened, but she didn't jump to her feet lest she disturb Seith.

The voice sounded quite close, behind her, to the side.

"Long ago, he left behind a flask of oil. He thought he'd come back, that he might need it, but then his path didn't bring him here again." The young man who spoke sounded almost wistful.

"Who are you?" Donna called. "Show yourself."

"What?" Evan shouted. "Who?"

Seith straightened, murmured himself awake. "Cole?"

Donna got up, spun around in a circle. Maker's arse, she hated not being able to see. It didn't make her feel one whit better that whoever was out there in the blackness might've been able to kill all of them ten times over before she could have done anything about it.

Stone scraped and viscous liquid sloshed in a canister.

A small orb of light sputtered into life above Seith's palm, painting their immediate circle in wavering blue-green light. Evan had risen into a half crouch, his hands balled into fists as he peered at the figure that stood right at the edge of their refuge.

The young man wore much-patched hose and tunic, but it was the peculiar wide-brimmed hat that obscured most of his face that Donna found the most peculiar.

"He's the boy!" she exclaimed. "The one from your stories."

Seith nodded, a proper smile lighting his features for the first time in weeks, so far as Donna could tell.

Cole held out a silt-smeared flask. "You need light that's warm. There is enough oil in here to see you to your destination."

Donna stepped forward, hesitated. If he'd wanted them dead, they'd be dead by now, right?

She accepted the boy's gift, and when their fingers brushed, she was surprised at the warmth of his skin. "Um, thanks?"

"Now, I must take you to the other one. He's alone and afraid, and nearly at the place where the river goes out. He doesn't know that his heart is here in the mountain, with him."

It was at that point that Donna allowed herself to feel faint with hope.


	37. A Way Out

They came upon Fiann curled up at the base of a lofty spire at the remains of yet another ancient, subterranean campsite. Hollowed out by hunger he was, but otherwise alive—drawing breath deeply while he slept. Donna set down the lantern and ran to him, her heart overflowing with the unimaginable joy at finding the one person alive she'd not imagined to ever see again. Where was Erin? Obviously not present. Donna swallowed back the sadness as she placed a hand on Fiann's.

"Hey," she said softly. "Wake up."

He started upright, his cry of fear echoing in the cavern. Then he took in those who surrounded him and flung himself into Donna's arms.

"Maker's bollocks, I never thought I'd see you again!" He shook with emotion, and there was still strength enough in him to squeeze the breath out of Donna.

Never mind. Donna hugged him right back as the tears welled up in her eyes. "We're getting out of here, love."

"Aye, that I believe now that I see you." He hugged her even harder.

"We'd better get out," Seith added.

"Not far now. You will feel the sun on your face again," Cole said. "No more jumping at shadows in the deeper darkness. But come, we must hurry. They are hungry."

Donna didn't want to ask who 'they' were.

Fiann leaned heavily on her as he rose. "Have you anything to eat?"

"No."

"Damn. I'm about ready to eat my own boots."

"Where is Erin?" Donna had to ask. She already hated that the answer she'd get would not be one she'd like.

"The long story is one best told in daylight, but the short of it involves spiders." He shuddered. "She was brave." His breath hitched. "She told me to run. She'd follow. Except…"

He rested his head on her shoulder.

Donna felt her eyes grow scratchy. Behind her, Evan said, "Damn."

"We must go then," said Seith.

Fiann looked up. "But that's not all." He leaned over to retrieve a makeshift sack that looked to be ancient canvas from a tent that had somehow endured through the ages. He'd been using it as a pillow, and he reached inside to retrieve an object that he held out to the others for inspection. "I found this."

An orb. Dull metal. Roughly the size of an over-large apple and inscribed with sinuous grooves all over its surface.

Seith stepped forward with a sharp intake of breath, his hand half outstretched.

Fiann gave a dry chuckle. "You recognise it, don't you? I'm sure _you_ do."

Donna felt all the blood drain from her face and pool at her feet. "I don't know much about arcane lore but I've read… How can this be? I thought it was destroyed when the Inquisitor finished Corypheus."

"There are others, it is said," Seith whispered. "But not all who seek them have the power to unlock these orbs' potential. My father was looking for another… Though he didn't say as much, but this is now what I've come to suspect."

"So was Mihanin, apparently," Fiann said with a grimace. "As luck would have it, I stumbled upon it in the dark trying to find a way out of a series of interlocking caverns not long after Erin and I were…separated."

"To think that bastard elf," Evan started, "has dozens of folk grubbing away in the dirt for weeks, if not months, and then you just 'stumble' upon it?"

"The Maker moves in mysterious ways," Fiann said.

"Maybe it wanted to be found," Seith murmured. "We don't know all that is needed to be known about these objects. They themselves might be imbued with powerful spirits associated with the gods."

"Well, we can't just leave it here for that dreadful git to find it," Fiann said. "I believe the Inquisition will be able to best ensure that this stays out of the wrong hands."

"Best destroy it," Evan said. "The last one caused enough trouble as it is."

"How?" Seith said. "No one but my mother was able to. It's valuable. We could use it."

"Are you mad?" Evan started. "Look what happened the last time!"

Donna heaved a sigh. "All right. Enough now. I think we can all agree that it's better that we press on. We're not out of the dark yet. What we'll do when we get out the other side, Maker alone knows, but we're not going to get there any faster for bickering like a bunch of whores over marks on payday."

"Are you sure you don't have anything to eat?" Fiann asked.

"I wish." Donna gave him a light kiss on his stubbled cheek. "We'll figure things out once we get out the other side.

"Come," said Cole. "I can show you the way to the light. But we must be quick. There are things darker, hungrier than spiders spinning webs."

"Let me guess," Evan muttered. "It begins with a 'D'."

For how long they travelled, Donna wasn't sure. All she knew was that she wouldn't let go of Fiann's hand as they stumbled along.

They drank the salty, mineral-rich water from pools that formed in hollows. They found a cavern where strange fungi grew in profusion. Fiann swore he recognised them from his travels and that they were edible—in moderation. They tasted revolting and as mineral-tangy as the water she'd been drinking, and her stomach rebelled with every mouthful she swallowed—but food was food, no matter what its shape or form.

And while the sustenance didn't fill out all the hollows, she was strengthened somewhat, and her reserves that had been near empty, were filled enough for her to hope that they might still feel sunlight warm her face. What must it be like for her ancestors, who still possessed Stone sense? Now _that_ would have been helpful round about now.

But the real terror began with the sound of distant drums.

Donna's pulse quickened. Drums in the deep. The air, close and festering, not clean like before. Their path had dipped into a warren of narrow, winding tunnels where their feet squelched through unimaginable gunk. Cole did not have to tell them that they must keep quiet. Not even a whisper.

Darkspawn. She didn't want to say it.

Of course there would be bleeding darkspawn.

They hurried. By the aching in her legs and the shortness of her breath, Donna knew they weren't pausing to rest like they usually did. Cole loped ahead, carrying their precious light, and they hurried after the strange boy with his sing-song words that made her feel as if he could see within her very heart.

She wanted to cry; her eyes grew sandy at the corners and there was a tightness in her chest that had less to do with their exertions and more with the sick sense of dread that was creeping up on her that her life would be no more than a whimper and a crunch of bone in the eternal night.

What glimpses she caught of her companions in the wavering, wobbling light of the lantern revealed equally grim expressions as they stumbled along despite the long hours. So close now. So. Bloody. Close. They weren't going to give up and die now. They'd fight, tooth and nail.

Eventually they could go no further. Cole knew without being told, and finger to his lips, he guided them into a crevasse down one of the lateral passages. It was a tight fit, and they were packed in like salted fish in a barrel so far as Donna could tell. Yet she was grateful for the warmth of her friends' bodies, the fluttering of breath. Shivering, Fiann pulled her close, planted a kiss on her forehead. His lips trembled as she returned the kiss. When Cole extinguished the lantern, the darkness was a solid thing that pressed down on them on all sides. Donna gasped. Fiann clasped her hand in his. He didn't need to speak, and she stilled her heart as best she could while she waited for sleep to overtake her.

Those infernal drums followed her into oblivion.

The forest around him susurrated with life as Seith moved along the path that curved between the buttress roots of giants that held up the canopy. A threnody of insects sawed away at their curtain of sound while small amphibians, hidden among spiralled fronds popped and clicked in counterpoint.

Yet this wasn't real. He was walking in his dreams because he didn't feel the moist air, didn't hear the whine of mosquitoes about his head. Seith held up a trembling hand and studied the nails—clean, though bitten to the quick. Not real. For a moment his vision wavered as he became aware of the sensation of existing in two places simultaneously, his body wedged tightly against that of Evan's in that endlessly dark place. It would be ridiculously easy for him to pull the rest of himself through. He knew how. He could even bring his friends with now that the connection—

The glow up ahead stopped him short.

He'd been _here_ before. In the material world where there was only a crater now where once an altar stood. Yet in a bubble halfway between the material world and the Fade, there was a woman there, trapped outside of time. How many occasions he'd dreamed just this, approaching her. Sometimes talking. Seith's pace quickened and he crossed a shallow, winding river. No time to worry about leeches. Besides, he was the one who was little more than a wraith here.

Up a rise. He flowed, like mist.

In the waking world, there was but a scooped-out crater where nothing grew. Not so now; it was as if he'd found that moment in the past, before the calamity occurred.

And there she was, forever striving forward, reaching out, the strain on her features evident as she tried to place her outstretched hand an empty plinth flanked by two statues of wolves.

"Teniël," he called softly.

The woman had a slight figure, like him; he'd inherited nothing of his father's build. Feral, near-vulpine face. _Like him_. It hurt him deep in his chest to see her. A ragged banner of black hair coalescing about her face as if she were underwater and lit up by that weird, unearthly glow. Green crackled energy by her outstretched left hand.

After two circumnavigations of the sphere of entrapment, Seith stopped opposite the plinth, facing his mother. She stared forward, unseeing. The flare of jade-green light from her palm crackled and sputtered as she reached forever outward, the Mark possibly reacting to his presence.

"Why did you go?" he asked. "I was still in swaddling. Barely three months old. Why did you leave me?"

There. He'd said it, and the words opened up an aching void deep within him. It was best that he didn't examine these scars, but here, now, he couldn't help but unpick the stitches and open up the past.

His mother stared into eternity, unblinking, her lips parted slightly as if she was calling someone's name. Seith was certain he knew exactly to whom she was calling out. She couldn't be that much older than he was right now. A slip of a girl who'd carried the fate of Thedas on her shoulders for three years.

"Damn you, Father!" he howled, and his cry seemed to reverberate with a lashing of power that caused his vision to fracture at the edges. He stepped back, turned around on his heel, screaming Solas's name with a string of ancient Elvhen curses that tore up from deep within.

The scene with Teniël shivered then shattered, and Seith was flung head over heels into nothingness. He tried to grasp at the essence of where he'd been: anything to anchor the vision, but it was like trying to snatch at smoke with his fingers. The scene shredded as fast as he strained to hold it.

Further maledictions flew from his lips as he cursed Solas soundly, with every scrap of vocabulary at his command. The hatred that poured out of him as he recalled the sadness of Commander Cullen, who had forever been second best to the heartless bastard who'd fathered Seith.

"Face me! Damn you! You craven coward! You _knew_ , didn't you? _You_ locked her away! It was _you_ she was looking for, wasn't it? And you couldn't bear to face her! Why? If you're such a powerful god, as some seem to think you are, that you can cause an entire people to fear that you might catch their scent, then why did you leave her there? Alone? For all these years? You're no god! A real god wouldn't be afraid."

He didn't want any of it to be true, all those conversations that he'd had with Solas over the years making so much sense when recast with what he'd figured out from the journal: the caginess of the man when certain topics were broached, how he seemed to always know just that little too much. Then snide remarks of ghost-haired Mihanin who seemed to accept Solas's true identity all too easily. Unasked for confirmation Seith didn't want.

 _So, this is what it likes to be the unwanted spawn of an evil trickster_.

Deep in the limitless darkness, drifting, he felt his face contort into a rictus grin. And his own name, so close in form to an ancient Elvhen word for 'malediction'. Oh, how he'd laughed the day he'd found that out. A name that could be spat out.

"It's an ambiguous naming word," Solas had pointed out to him years before. "It is dignified by the other glyphs around it. Meaning can shift."

But he'd never seen the glyph in any places other than the overgrown, forgotten shrines dedicated to Fen'Harel. And none of the surrounding glyphs had ever improved the context.

 _I was a curse to my mother the moment I was born_.

Something clasped his shoulder.

A voice, as if from a great distance, spoke his name.

 _Seith_!

Seith bit back a shriek as he started awake in the darkness.

"It's okay! You're okay!" Donna whispered in his ear. She'd pulled him to her, and he was aware of Evan's arm around him from behind, the human lending him a physicality.

"Where…" They were here, in the Deep Roads somewhere beneath Western Orlais. Escaping. Not fractured and falling forever into nothingness.

A hiss of breath escaped him, and Seith allowed himself to relax.

"Are you all right?" Donna asked. "You started… It was like you were about to have a seizure of something."

"Or you were going to start shrieking enough for the darkspawn to find us," Evan added.

"Will you guys pipe down a bit?" Fiann muttered.

Seith felt Donna turn.

"What, and leave him to start screeching in his nightmare? That would've brought them down on us for sure."

"Well, by Andraste's sacred tits, can you please just shut up. Cole said he's worried, and he's been gone so long so now I'm worried."

"We should go," Donna whispered.

"Not in the dark," Evan said.

"We daren't light the lantern," Donna said.

So they waited, squished in the fissure in which they'd slept. For once, Seith was grateful for the close quarters, for the air was dank, heavy with cold. They all shivered, but at least offered each other a modicum of warmth. They had one bad moment when there was a chittering and huffing of breath, and the stamping of many feet that was accompanied by the jingling of armour.

Darkspawn. The stench of decay and something unnatural, that sent weevils of stark terror crawling through Seith's veins, had him and his fellows hold absolutely still for fear of discovery. He didn't need to think about what would happen if they were found, dragged from their crevasse the way wading birds plucked worms out of their burrows at ebb tide. Eaten alive, corrupted, torn to ribbons.

They waited without moving for what seemed like an entire age, until the sound of their breathing seemed to be preternaturally loud. This was it; they were stuck here forever—

"You can come out." Cole's voice sounded from the opening of their hiding place. "They are gone, for now. We must hurry. Another patrol passes here soon."

Seith scrambled after the dwarves, glad Evan was the one bringing up the rear. Cole lit the lantern, but he kept the shutter open only a fraction, so that they only had the barest sliver of light by which to see the path they must follow. Their progress was slower, and they paused often to listen for the sounds of pursuit.

With his unerring sense of direction, Cole guided them through one twisting tunnel after the other. At times they crawled; sometimes they made their way through what felt like caverns larger than any of the ruins Seith had ever encountered. And always, there was the muted roar and rumble of many feet and evil voices; the darkspawn were always near.

Seith allowed this constant stress to wash over him until he stumbled along in dull resignation to their fate. There was no end. They'd be here forever. Perhaps he already had fallen into a Fade nightmare, doomed to repeat the same action over and over again until his body eventually perished. Or maybe his spirit was sucked into the Fade to wander forevermore.

"Hssst." Evan pulled an arm around Seith and stopped him.

He nearly bumped into Donna. Cole had closed the lantern, but he was outlined in a glow nonetheless.

Fractured light sent hazy bars down from above, illuminating a vast chamber tiered with what appeared to be the remnants of a forgotten thaig. The delicate spans of walkways criss-crossed overhead, mocking them with a way out if they could only reach them. And perhaps that way out would have been feasible, if it weren't for the grim company guarding what seemed to be the only staircase leading up to the first level. A dozen, maybe a score of brigands. It was difficult to tell, because Seith's eyes were struggling to handle the overabundance of illumination. A figure turned just so that a shock of ash-white hair was illuminated.

 _Mihanin_. Here.

Disappointment soured Seith's mouth.

The spindly ancient Elvhen tilted his head just so, as though he was listening out. Then he straightened, facing exactly where Seith and his friends were hidden behind a chunk of shattered masonry.

"Ah, so good of you to join our little gathering. We were placing bets to see whether the foul ones would get you. Seems I'm owed a few silver pieces. You can come out now. We'd like to do a head count so we can figure out by exactly how much I'll be the richer."

Seith didn't need to see the creature's face to know that that Mihanin was sneering.


	38. Silent Scream

"I won't let you hurt them!" Cole dropped the lantern with a clang.

Donna gasped, drew further back into the shadows just as Mihanin's hastily cast barrier flashed against the spirit-boy's assault.

"Maker's arse!" Fiann cussed behind her, his grip on her arm nearly hurting.

"We don't have any weapons!" Donna hissed at him. "Gotta stay back. Find a way around."

Orders were yelled out. Men cried in pain as Cole's twin blades found them instead of his intended target.

Evan seemed rooted to the spot but Donna plucked at his arm and got him moving too, as they shuffled along.

Only then did she realise Seith was missing. She began to straighten, his name blooming on her tongue, but Fiann shoved her down. In the dim gleam of the cavern Evan's eyes were wide and white-rimmed.

Seith's voice rang out from a distance away, in a string of elven curses that promised pain and death. Then an actinic flash all but blinded her, followed by the overpowering stench of ozone. The sound that followed was more a reverse-implosion that sucked the breath from her lungs.

The fool! He was drawing off the elf so that—

"Come." Fiann's hand found hers and the three of them continued to pick their way around the rubble and ancient, tumbled masonry.

Torn between watching the unfolding battle and keeping her focus on the uneven terrain lest she sprain an ankle or worse, Donna followed Fiann. Evan's hand remained clamped to her shoulder, whether it was to keep her going or for his own reassurance, it didn't matter. They weren't going to leave anyone behind. Not this time.

Mihanin was limned in red flames as he cast crackling sheet lightning that spidered out to Seith, whose barrier repulsed the attack. Of the ancient elf's minions, all that remained were the twisted bodies on the ground, discarded like toys that no longer served a function.

"We need to do something," Donna said to Fiann when they sheltered behind the base of a pillar.

"He's got the bag," Fiann said. "I let him carry it."

"What?" Donna nearly choked on the word.

"It's a heavier burden than it looks."

"But he's…" Donna crouched so that she could peer back where the conflict took place.

The light strobed, alternating between blinding flashes and sucking darkness, the air booming as if giant drums thudded, making her ears pop. Seeing mages engage in battle, with no holds barred, gave her a new appreciation for exactly how insignificant she, a powerless dwarf, really was. Now, if she'd had her knives, or even her bow, she might've been able to do something.

Fiann grimaced, peered around a pillar then turned back to her and Evan. "We can do our best by surviving. Seith's a canny lad. He sorted out that dragon."

"You're only saying that because he's saving our arses," Donna bit back. "Again, I might add." Not to mention that if he failed, Mihanin would get what he'd wanted after all.

"Now's not the time," Evan muttered.

She wanted to point out to him that he only ever thought of his own arse, but she couldn't disagree with either of the men. Deep down here, they were so far out of their league.

They dashed to another point, about eight feet from the stairs. Each step Donna took she feared that a stray bolt would strike her, send her arcing through the air. All the small hairs on her arms and nape prickled, and her lungs were tight. Next to her, Evan wheezed for breath. Fiann's mouth was pulled into a rictus of terror.

What if this entire cavern collapsed? What then? They'd be buried forever, crushed beneath piles of rubble.

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it!_

Only forward. They could only go forward. Her chest was tight, and she struggled to breathe, because it would be so much easier to cower like a nug cornered by a hunting dog.

That empty space between their last hiding spot and the stairs leading to the first level beckoned, but there was so much open space. Nothing to protect them should Mihanin see them. Even Fiann hung back, undecided. Donna turned in time to see Cole attempt another strike at Mihanin's barrier.

"Run, you fools!" Seith stood atop a truncated pillar. He had no staff, but crackling green light played across both his palms and painted his face in ghoulish shades.

Mihanin shrieked as his barrier imploded, but he flung his arm outward with an expulsion of force that flung the spirit boy clean across the chamber. If he landed, Donna couldn't tell, but then Seith let loose spattering ball of green energy that knocked Mihanin off his feet.

"Now!" Fiann shouted.

Evan shoved her hard, from behind, and Donna's feet obeyed.

"You think you can—" Mihanin's response was cut short.

Donna didn't turn, didn't look. If she did, she'd falter. She'd be _dead_.

The air behind her stirred, grew hot and cold in quick succession, and her left side turned to ice. It was as if a thousand tiny wasps had stung her but she didn't have time to worry about the pain.

Even so, as she stumbled up the crumbling stairs, falling several times, she expected the whine-crackle of power to disintegrate her world completely.

Except the world seemed to grow soft round the edges, and it was as if Donna struggled through air turned to treacle. She managed to drag herself behind a banister, Evan collapsed in a heaving pile next to her. Fiann peered over the edge, and she sidled up next to him.

Where Seith had been, a rip formed in the very fabric of reality. Of the boy there was no sight, but the figure that stepped out of that pulsating tear, even at that distance, filled her with an unreasoning sense of dread. A coldness, for lack of better description. Elven, no doubt, his hair severely pulled back in short locks.

He looked down, to his feet, and even from this distance, Donna could detect his faint smile. Then he turned his regard to Mihanin, who crouched with his back to the stairs, facing the new arrival.

They argued, or rather Mihanin hurled invective, but the stranger merely smirked and stepped forward, hand outstretched. The tarnished gold of his armour gleamed in the swirling green light from the rip in reality.

 _That's the Fade gleaming through_ , Donna realised.

Her fingers tightened on the banister, slick with liquid. She glance at the dark stains. Maker's breath, she must've gashed open her hand.

But then Mihanin shrieked unintelligible curses, and she watched in horror as he rushed the tall elf, the blade of his staff pointed at the new arrival's chest.

The elf's eyes flashed once, and Mihanin stopped in his tracks. And this was the part where Donna shivered; Mihanin didn't just stop because he'd taken fright. Even in the hectic, weird light, she could see that he'd stopped because he'd been… It looked as if he'd been turned to stone.

"Andraste's arse," Evan murmured next to her.

"Well, shit," Fiann said.

Donna shivered, and it wasn't just because she was feeling so cold all of a sudden; in fact, her world was tilting just ever so slightly, and she couldn't quite keep herself upright.

The burning pain down her left side grew worse, and she glanced down at the warmth that tickled her side. Then immediately wished she hadn't. What remained of the ratty linen shirt she was wearing had been shredded. Her skin was…lacerated. Whether from the blast of magic or the tiny shards of stone she could _see_ embedded in her flesh.

Her blood oozed out in a steady flow, with every breath, with every heartbeat. Up until now, she'd kept going because she'd simply had to survive. _This isn't only a scratch_ , rang in her head.

Fiann noticed her dilemma the moment she turned her face to him, which was why his arms were ready to catch her when her fingers slipped from the banister and she slid into nothingness.

What may have made things worse was that Solas betrayed no emotion as he regarded the statue that was Mihanin.

"I did not expect I'd ever see that fool again," he said without any rancour.

Seith crouched in the rubble near his father's feet, and he didn't know whether to feel triumphant or terrified that has last-ditch attempt to summon some sort of help had worked. Against all expectations. It'd been like that time he'd dragged that dragon with him into the Fade. Only this time he'd sought to draw certain victory _out_ of the Fade.

And he'd brought Solas.

 _Fen'Harel_ , he reminded himself.

That was the curse that had died on Mihanin's last words before he'd been turned to stone before Seith's very eyes.

Solas stepped down from the chunk of fallen masonry and held out a hand to Seith. "I suppose I should thank you, but I do believe you and your friends have found something that belongs to me."

Seith scrambled to his feet. "What? No inquiries as to my health, whether I've not nearly died a hundred times over?"

He regarded Seith mildly. "You're an adult. You are my son. I wouldn't expect anything less of you. After all, you did deem yourself sufficiently experienced to shrug off my guidance when you did. That you are still alive now can be credited directly to your talent. You value your freedom and autonomy, and I respect that."

"But you don't respect Teniël," Seith spat. "Why do you keep her trapped then?"

A brief twitch that might be construed as torment marred Solas's brow before the mask slid back in place. "She is dangerous. She would destroy everything before its time."

"She loved you."

"Her love is…misplaced. I'm saving her from—"

"What? A life of pain? And then you doomed me, doomed others to suffer for it? I know _who_ you are, _what_ you are."

"And there is nought that you can do to change it," Solas said. "It is regrettable, but one must move onward, work within the paradigm to convert mistakes into opportunities." The way he regarded Seith turned his bones to water.

How had he not seen _this_ all those years?

"But I am in your debt, it would seem," Solas said after a breath. He glanced at the flickering hole in reality then turned to Seith again then eyed the makeshift bag that Seith cradled protectively. "You are a marvel. Ones who can manifest such power are priceless beyond compare."

"I am but another tool for you then?" Seith said.

"Fortuitous, I'd say rather. Never a tool."

"But we were in the right place at the right time, to your advantage, it would seem."

His father offered him a small smirk. "I won't deny that, and I will warn that there are those who will seek to use you for their own ends."

"Like you." Bitterness burned at the back of Seith's throat.

"I'd rather you come to me of your own free will."

"Yet you'd allow me to roam about, vulnerable. In the meanwhile."

"You are most certainly not vulnerable, da'len. Reality is torn asunder when you are in your most dire need. Why, you are able to summon the Dread Wolf himself. Sometimes the sharpest blades need to be tempered in the harshest flame."

"I never asked for this."

"Do you think I'd allow you to walk free if you had?"

"Free her then," Seith said, not quite sure where the impulse had sprung from. "I'll do what you want if you just let Teniël go."

Solas shook his head, his smile sad. "You know I can't allow that."

"Why? Because she's the one person who can control you, is that it? You think I'm stupid, that I don't know what you've been looking for in all those ruins. Those ancient devices where the Fade is weaker. That you've been turning them off, one by one. A little bit here, a little bit there. You're up to something, and I swear I'll find out what. Dreaming a little more, to uncover more artefacts, more whispers from the past in a broken world." So much of what his father had been doing was falling into place. And that he was here now, dressed in armour like some ancient Elvhen arcane warrior from the past. If only he had all the pieces of the puzzle that remained tantalisingly outside of his reach.

"My mother was the only one who would stop you," Seith whispered through numb lips. "And you betrayed her. And me. You stole away my mother."

And poor old cuckolded Cullen, who pined after a heart he'd never be able to claim. All collateral damage to this imposing being who towered over Seith.

"And for that I am deeply sorry. It was unavoidable."

The bitterness in Seith's mouth turned rancid, and his anger bubbled up from deep within. "I hate you."

His power surged through his blood, and a high-pitched singing started in his ears.

Yet Solas regarded him sadly, with such gentleness. He raised his fingers to his lips in the universal gesture of silence, and a curious numbness crept up Seith's legs. A curious lassitude settled over him as Solas reached for the bag that Seith had slung around his shoulder. He barely felt his father remove the burden.

"There isn't much time. Ir abelas, da'len. Fen'Harel ma ghilana."

The rip in reality was sputtering, even as Seith watched. Beyond that fissure, he could see blue sky, broken arches of pale stone reaching upward. Pine trees shivering in a wind he couldn't feel. Then his father was silhouetted for a heartbeat, and the vision sputtered out. Gone back to wherever he'd come from, arrogant in trusting that Seith's magic would hold the portal open long enough for him to depart.

Seith crumpled, the breath knocked out of him as whatever power had held him place, released. Sharp stones dug into his knees, and he'd skinned his palms as he'd gone down.

For a while, all he could do was drag in ragged breaths, his lungs like a punctured bellows while his heart hammered a panicked tattoo against his ribs. Whatever had happened now, was _huge_ , bigger than anything. His father, a god of tricksters, was now in possession of a powerful artefact that possibly matched the one he'd lost all those years ago. His father, who had locked away an entire pantheon of gods, if those stories were true.

Seith wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

No matter what he did, what he tried to do, he only made things worse, every step of the way.

"Lad!" Fiann called from a level above. "Lad! Are you all right?"

He look up, but the daylight that streamed from the opening to this thaig blinded him.

"I'm alive. He took the orb."

"That can't be helped now. You gotta come, lad. We need to get out of here. Donna's been hurt bad."

Evan called out. "I could really use some healing magic, if you've got any spare."

"Coming!" Seith staggered to his feet with a groan. He cast one, morose glance over his shoulder at the spot where the rift had formed, but there wasn't even so much of a ripple in the air to betray where he'd torn reality.

He turned back then flinched as he made eye contact with blind Mihanin, whose mouth was open in a silent, eternal scream. A hellish statue for all eternity. Seith shuddered, as he felt the ghost of his father's paralysing magic linger in his bones. So close. Solas could have done to Seith what he'd done to Mihanin, but he hadn't.

Seith couldn't quite shake the idea that somehow his running about, with this wild magic unfettered, was doing _exactly_ what Solas wanted. That each time he lost control or let his anger get the better of him, he too was weakening the Veil, making it easier for…

What if the Veil came down? What then?

No time to worry about that now. His friends needed him.


	39. Return to Skyhold

Seith had no idea how they managed to find their way out of that thaig. Between him, Fiann and Evan taking turns to carry Donna, with Evan playing healer as best he could and Seith wishing that he were somehow adept at healing magic.

Oh, he could break things all right. He could bloody well tear great big gaping holes in reality, but he could not fix the one person he now had to admit to himself he truly loved—the sister he'd never had while growing up.

Found family. That's what she'd called them a while back, and his heart had twisted a little at the words.

Their route took them ever upward, as Fiann led them unerringly to the surface along terraces and up more stairs. The doorways and windows of apartments gaped at them, whispering of the ghosts of the past that would snag unwary dreamers.

During some distant past cataclysm, the earth had shifted its bones and the lid had been torn from the thaig. When Seith peered up he glimpsed tangled knots of trees' roots like hair hanging down and birds that flapped and called. Birds. Sunlight slanting down through the chasm above. The sky was so bright he had to squint, but the air. Oh the air was fresh and smelled of freedom, and they hurried, for they feared the darkspawn that might still hunt them down. They were not free yet.

Donna wavered between delirium and semi-consciousness. He skin was so pale and clammy, and they stopped a few times so that she could vomit, which made Evan cuss because of the amount of blood that seeped through his makeshift bandages.

"We need help," he murmured to Seith when Fiann had gone scouting ahead. "As in _real_ help." His woebegone expression said all Seith needed to know.

Yet Fiann was like a man possessed. He spoke calmly to Donna, pressed his lips to her forehead. "We're almost there, princess. Almost. Just you hang in there."

What were they going to do once they got wherever "there" was? Seith had no idea where "here" was—they could be all the way in the Nahashin Marshes for all he knew.

Fiann seemed oblivious to the doomed glances that Seith traded with Evan, especially when Donna no longer responded to any stimuli, and they were no nearer to an end that Seith could perceive. They'd stopped on a landing before a long bridge that bore testament to its builders' skills because the graceful span was mostly intact. Yet there were stairs leading further up, and to the left, and down… And they'd already doubled back this day. Creators, at least they'd had water to drink, even if it was somewhat stagnant and had been bustling with mosquito larvae—nothing a flash of fire magic couldn't sort out.

He supposed he should be grateful that by the time night fell, he could see faint stars pricking through the crack above them.

"I'm going to go scout ahead," Fiann said. "You guys—"

"We know," Evan said and waved him off.

Fiann was always scouting ahead. Perhaps he'd be scouting ahead when the inevitable happened, because Seith could no longer deny that. "Fenedhis," Seith said and slumped down.

"I suppose it's too much to ask for you to magic up another one of those portal thingies," Evan said.

Seith managed a raspy laugh. "What, and this time I'll bring through an Archdemon?"

Evan cut him a measured glance. "Knowing you…" Then he turned to Donna and smoothed hair behind her ear. "Not much longer now. I suppose it's for the best that he's gone off."

"Shouldn't we tell him just to stay put?" Seith couldn't look at his friend, already lying like a corpse. His chest ached, and it was from more than just the past few weeks' exertion. Donna couldn't die. Mustn't die. Not yet. It was all his fault. If he'd not deflected Mihanin's magic at quite that moment, that stray bolt wouldn't have shattered the stone… He gave a strangled cry and dug his hands into his hair and rocked forward.

Evan's hand was firm on his shoulder. "Don't."

Seith twisted round. "I could have done more! Everything is so messed up."

The human grimaced at him, his fine features sharp under the grime. "It is what it is. It's a miracle in itself that we've gotten so far after everything that we've gone through."

"Her story shouldn't end here."

"No one's story should end when it does, but who're we to say? You know I've been a total bastard to her? I feel like shit for the way she's always just carried a torch for me this whole time. Fuck, Seith, she uprooted her whole life just to follow me when I took off, and I was such a fucking bastard. I thought it was kinda cute at the time. Really great that my friend stuck by me when I went back to my ma's. 'Cos you know what my first thought was? I'd have some company on the road. It would be _pleasant_ to have a friend along, tra-la-lah, while I go-barding. I didn't realise what hell she was going through. It was all about _me_." He grimaced. "And I've never told her how much she means to me. She's…like a sister. I knew she always wanted more from me, but I never told her how much she really meant to me."

Evan's eyes were suspiciously bright, and Seith turned his attention to Donna's still features while Evan wiped at his face with his wrist.

Somehow he knew that Donna would fucking hate to see them snivel around her like this. She'd tell them to suck it up. He could even imagine her slapping the back of Evan's head hard enough to make his skull ring. He laughed.

"Fuck it, but it's been a helluva story. She'd have written, right?" Seith said.

"Yeah, make her dad proud. Her real father."

"The one she never got to meet."

They both sighed.

"I'll write her a song," Evan said. "I'll make sure it's sung from Denerim all the way to Val Royeaux. Scum it, all the way to the bloody Anderfels if I have to."

"Minrathous too," Seith said.

"Aye, even if I have to gate crash one of the Archon's parties myself."

Seith allowed himself a small chuckle of laughter at the mere thought.

Voices rang out a level above them, and they both stiffened.

"What now?" Evan whispered. "Where's that bastard dwarf?"

Seith rose painfully. "I'll create a diversion. See if you can…"

There was no way Evan would manage Donna on his own, and they both knew it.

"No, we make a stand. Such as it is." Grim-faced, Evan rose.

Yet it was not a party of tomb robbers or darkspawn that reached them. Seith nearly sagged in relief when he glimpsed the Inquisition sigil beaten into silver breastplates. Fiann came ahead of a party of soldiers.

"It's young Lavellan!" a man called. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Seith blinked. "Donal?"

The human lowered the hood of his cloak and smiled at him and enveloped him in a hug. "Haven't seen you since."

"Ooff. If you say knee-high to anything, I will—"

Donal held him at arm's length so he could regard him. "You have the look of your mother about you."

The stocky human had a bit more silver at his temples, and a new scar that ran across his forehead, but otherwise he was the same as Seith remembered from his days getting underfoot at Skyhold. He'd always loved visiting in the tavern whenever Sutherland's crew was off duty.

"My—" Seith glanced at Donna.

The elven woman who crouched by his friend looked up at Sutherland at that point. "She's bad."

"You do your best, Feyana."

Things became muddled for Seith then as he and Evan and Fiann were swept up in the rescue party. A makeshift stretcher was formed out of blankets, and Donna was hefted away. Someone shoved a small flask containing some sort of herbal tincture in Seith's hand, and he downed the bitter fluid that immediately suffused him with a sense of hope and well-being. A blanket was cast about his shoulders and he was hurried from this place of darkness. In the end, that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

As it turned out, they'd exited the Deep Roads southwest of a tributary of some Orlesian river that eventually brought them to Val Foret. Here they requisitioned a coaches and sent birds ahead to Skyhold. Donna was in a serious but stable condition. That was all he could get out of the healer, Feyana. Between him, Fiann and Evan, they took turns to ride in her coach. She slept, in a severe weakened state. The few times that she did awaken, he wasn't sure if she even realised when and where she was, though her faint smile was brighter than the sun.

It was the strangest thing, Sutherland told him one night at an inn. They would never have diverted their search for a notorious band of tomb robbers if it weren't for the dream he'd had. Sutherland wasn't much one for putting any stock in dreams, but for some reason he said he felt as if he could confide in Seith, and he'd leaned closer so that only Seith could hear him tell how Andraste herself had instructed him to head towards that abandoned, nameless thaig. Imagine his surprise when he should run directly into Fiann headed the other way…

Seith shivered. Perhaps his father, the lord of dreams and lies, had shown them some mercy after all.

Donna wasn't certain of much for a long time. Her body was shaken and bumped, and someone forced her to drink awful-tasting liquids. Yet there were cool hands to mop her brow, and a familiar baritone half-sang the songs she remembered from her childhood.

Often, she fell into the oblivion of sleep, only to be woken into a half-state of awareness. Was this what it was like to dream? Gradually, the pain receded, but she sought refuge in the darkness, because that was where true healing lay. Little was certain, but she was among those she cared about, and by Andraste's grace, she was still alive and no longer lost within that Maker-cursed thaig.

Fiann's familiar hand was often slipped into hers, and she came fully to her senses, aware of the grind of wheels on gravel, of the swaying, jolting motion as they glided along.

"Where—" she croaked.

"Hush, my love, you are safe." Warm lips were pressed to her forehead and his familiar scent washed over her.

Donna cracked open her eyes and made out his blurred features within the dimness of the interior with its quilted walls. She lay on a makeshift bed across one seat of a carriage, and from the movement, they were hurrying along a well-kept road.

"Where are we?" she whispered.

"About three days outside of Redcliffe," he said.

"How?"

"Please, drink something." Fiann brought a cup to her lips.

Donna swallowed a small mouthful of liquid, tasted elfroot and mint, as well as hints of a bitter tincture she knew was one of Evan's specialities.

"Is this going to make me sleep again?" Donna asked. She'd rather not. At least not for a while.

"You lost much blood," Fiann said. "You were struck by debris in that thaig, and the wound soured. We thought—" He grimaced, squeezed her hand hard. "We thought we'd lost you."

"Where are—"

"Shhh," Fiann said, and half glanced over his shoulder at the two forms slumped against each other behind him—Seith and Evan each bundled in cloaks and leaned against each other on the opposite seat.

"It's been a long ride, and we've been taking turns tending to you. We feared we'd lose you, and we felt it best to bring you to Skyhold as fast as possible once we'd had you stabilised."

"How did we get out of the thaig?"

Fiann shook his head. "It was the strangest coincidence. Just as I was making my way to the entrance, I encountered a certain agent Sutherland and his crew." His smile grew broad. "Oh, he was a sight for sore eyes indeed! He tells me he'd been hunting down some tomb robbers and his quest had brought him within the vicinity of what he'd heard reported as an old thaig. The timing couldn't have been better."

Donna frowned. "How is that even possible?"

"The Maker works in mysterious ways, my love."

She wasn't convinced, be the drowsiness from the medicine she'd been given started to creep up on her and she slid away into sleep again.

Little by little, she was able to stay awake for longer spells, and the remaining days of her journey seemed to pass in a strange kind of limbo, as if the only world that existed was here, in that carriage, where she was surrounded by the people who were dearest to her. It pleased her no end that Evan, Seith and Fiann gave all appearances to have become fast friends since their ordeal. They spoke about their assorted pasts, their dreams, and Donna dug deep within her heart and realised that she didn't know what she herself wanted.

She hadn't touched her writing in months, didn't even know if she still possessed the wherewithal to pick up a quill, dip it in ink and make sensible marks on a fresh sheet of paper. If she did manage to finish a story, would her publisher in Kirkwall spare a glance for her submission considering that she hadn't been in contact with him for such a long time? Would she have to start right at the bottom again? Or would she be like her father and spew out a volume of words about events so weird, so unutterably bizarre, that she'd be considered completely mad?

Or would she end up working as a guard at some tavern again, like back in Redcliffe?

She and Fiann hadn't had a moment to themselves during this time. When they did overnight at roadside inns, she shared her room with Feyana, the dour Inquisition agent and healer who'd been assigned to their convoy.

There hadn't been any moments to discuss a future for her and Fiann together, and from the sound of things, he wasn't about to give up his adventuring ways anytime soon. Not with her still as weak as a newborn nug, and prone to dizzy spells.

For the present, she drew comfort from the fact that he was with her, read to her, held her hand. His eyes were warm when he looked at her, even if his kisses were chaste, as if she were a porcelain doll apt to break if he so much as breathed on her.

The day they arrived at Redcliffe, they stopped long enough to change horses. Donna and Evan traded meaningful glances, but he didn't mention her family nor did she bring up the thorny topic. What could she say about a mother who'd been all too happy for her stepfather to marry Donna off to further his business interests? At some point, she'd reach out to her half-brothers, but currently she didn't possess the nerve.

Soon enough, they were headed up that familiar switchback pass, and she asked that they keep open the blinds so that she could breathe in the fresh resin of sunshine on pines. The air grew crisper and colder as they ascended, and Donna shoved aside her concerns and merely enjoyed the last of their journey. Three days by carriage, with one night at an inn and a last night camping beneath the stars with the scent of wood smoke in her hair.

Then the road became steeper, and she knew they were on the final leg of their journey. Nearly there.

The mountain fastness appeared to grow out of the very peaks upon which it was rooted, its battlements adorned with the Inquisitions banners that fluttered in the brisk breeze that Donna was well aware never ceased. She pulled her cloak tighter, and hung out as far as she dared as their carriage rattled along. The snow-crusted heights made her feel the cold marrow deep.

Evan tugged at her, and she sat back down.

"You're going to catch your death if you hang out there like a peasant," he told her.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Clever, ha-ha."

Fiann and Seith sniggered.

"I can't believe this is almost over," Donna said.

"You going to write about it?" Seith asked.

"Do you think anyone would believe me?"

"No one believes the esteemed Tethras's tall tales either," Evan said.

"He embellishes, for sure," Fiann said, "but there is a strong backbone of truth."

"How would you know?" Donna shot back.

"Oh." He shrugged, waggled his brows. "I get around."

"You've _met_ him?" A cold thrill of _something_ iced her blood. Then again, she wouldn't put it past Fiann. He travelled, a lot. On Inquisition business as a respected agent. She should have known.

"I've met him too," Seith said, "before you get all freaked out. He was still living here Skyhold when I was little."

"True." Donna puffed out a breath, feeling suddenly light-headed.

While she hadn't kept her _actual_ father's identity a secret from her friends, the topic wasn't one that she'd brought up all that often. She didn't want to sound as if she were trying to lean on the identity of a father she'd never met, and who in all likelihood didn't even know she existed. Or, if he did, he sure as the Void hadn't been arsed to make any contact with her or her mother all these years.

As if sensing her discomfort, Fiann shifted over to her and pulled her closer to him so that she could lean her head against his shoulder. Still, she found herself a little miffed with him for only letting on now that he'd had dealings with the one and only Varric Tethras in the past. Yet she allowed conversation to flow around her, listened with half an ear while the others started talking about the first things they'd do when they arrived at the fortress.

Predictably, Evan planned to hit the Herald. Seith mumbled something about the library, until Fiann reminded them all that they were to go straight to the tower for a debriefing before anyone thought to go anywhere. Except Donna. She had a reprieve, and was to go straight to the infirmary so that a healer could examine her.

"I'm sure our resident mistress of the ravens will make special dispensation to come see you."

"Are you just sparing me the ordeal or is there something you're discussing that I shouldn't be privy to you," Donna asked, somewhat waspishly.

Fiann pressed his lips to her forehead. "The former, my love. You should see yourself—you're positively wan. Get some rest."

As if to mock her indignation, Donna was wracked by a fit of painful coughing that lasted so long that she feared she'd pass out. As it was, by the time their carriage rolled beneath the portcullis, she was ready to go straight to sleep again, and Evan muttered on about how he worried that she was feverish again.

Seith said very little; he only pressed his lips together and stared at her with worry etched in his dark eyes.

The courtyard was a chaos of stable hands, soldiers and servants. Fiann and Evan were right beside her, guiding her through the throng to an entrance near the kitchens. The twists and turns they took through the warren of passages in the lower levels of the castle were so confusing, Donna feared she'd be lost if she tried to navigate on her own. She hadn't been this deep into the mountain fastness before.

The infirmary was situated on the north-facing side, with arched windows overlooking the herb garden. Chantry sisters, clad in white, ghosted between the beds, and an older man dressed in dark blue robes with an Inquisition sigil embroidered in silver on the front took over from Fiann and Evan.

"Don't lea—" Donna said to Fiann, suddenly understanding that she was to stay here, among strangers, while they went on to see the Spymaster.

He paused, dragged her into his arms where she felt safe. "I promise you, I will come back, but you must rest, receive proper healing, and here you have the best with Enchanter Morris." He nodded towards the mage. "He studied under none other than Wynne." He laughed as she gasped. "Yes, none other than the lady herself. You're in good hands. Allow him to do his work. None of us are running away."

Unaccountably, tears prickled in the corners of her eyes, but Donna nodded, came in for one more hug and a kiss, then watched like a forlorn child as Fiann and Evan left.

"Come," Morris said, his touch gentle on her shoulder. "Let's take a look at you, shall we?"

When they were done with the examination, Donna slept. For how long, she wasn't certain, because whatever Morris had put in that tea to ease her fever, had knocked her out more soundly than she had expected.

The Spymaster was every bit as terrifying as she'd been the last time Seith had to endure her scrutiny, but it helped that Fiann and Evan were here for the debriefing and shared in his ordeal. She was especially interested in Mihanin's mission, and even more upset by the fact that Solas had taken the orb. Leliana didn't say as much, but Seith was certain she blamed him rather than Fiann for losing the orb.

Already Fiann leaned over the table, stabbing at locations on a map, and from the direction the toing and froing went between the dwarf and the Spymaster, Seith could pick up that they were plotting another mission.

"You'll accompany him, of course," Leliana said.

"Me?" Seith shrank back on his chair, hating the way his voice squeaked on that single syllable.

"Yes you." She steepled her fingers, her face shadowed beneath her hood. "You're better equipped than most of us to treat with the apostate and find out his intentions. Artefacts like that should not fall into the wrong hands."

Seith bristled. "And what makes you think that my father's hands are the wrong hands?"

That last conversation with Solas came front of mind, in startling clarity.

" _I am but another tool for you then?" Seith said._

" _Fortuitous, I'd say rather. Never a tool."_

" _But we were in the right place at the right time, to your advantage, it would seem."_

 _His father offered him a small smirk. "I won't deny that, and I will warn that there are those who will seek to use you for their own ends."_

" _Like you." Bitterness burned at the back of Seith's throat._

" _I'd rather you come to me of your own free will."_

Seith saw it then. To the Inquisition he was but a tool as well—a dangerous tool—and they'd seek to control him, or destroy him, much like when he was only a small boy accidentally dragging demons through his own makeshift rifts.

Leliana watched him, and he tried to return her gaze evenly, but felt how his skin grew warm then cold, then warm again at her regard. She knew that he knew.

Seith dropped his gaze, studied his ragged nails, bitten to the quick.

"I will sleep on it and come see you in the morning," he mumbled.

"I will hold you to it," she said, and he had the distinct impression that she would have him watched in case he ran.

Thereafter he excused himself, said he felt unwell. It was an obvious ploy, but clearly Leliana and Fiann had no further use for him, though Evan remained behind, oblivious to Seith's discomfort and obviously enthusiastic about tagging along with Leliana's scheme. Allegedly she had word of an encampment somewhere in the Brecilian forest where elves had been noted coming and going, and there was talk of rebellion…

He couldn't even go see Cullen. That bit deep. His foster-father had retired to a farm somewhere in the Fereldan hinterlands, and now ran a home for Templars recovering from lyrium addiction. According to Leliana he was frail but still driven to overcome the aftereffects of withdrawal. Seith would have to visit him at another stage, and it galled him that he hadn't made good on his promise to help Cullen find a cure. He wasn't sure he'd have the opportunity now, not with all the complications he currently faced.

Numb, Seith wandered to the infirmary. He didn't quite know where else to go, and he needed to speak to Donna one last time. There, he'd admitted it. He was going to go. How, he wasn't quite sure yet, but despite his own misgivings about his trickster of a father, he wasn't going to be a pawn in the Spymaster's game either.

The lore surrounding the orb bothered him. A focus, a repository of vast power. To do _what_ with? Frustration gnawed, because Seith could sense a larger story afoot, one in which he might still play a role.

"All right. I'll bite," he said to no one in particular as he paused on a landing.

A servant passed him, raised a brow at Seith apparently speaking to no one in particular. Then Seith hurried along, a tight smile tugging at his lips.

The infirmary was quiet, with only an apprentice seated quietly in a corner, studying her notes. The shutters were pulled closed, the lamps dimmed, and Seith only recognised the figure by Donna's bed when he was halfway across the floor.

His heart stuttered and he halted midstride.

Varric, perhaps a little greyer around the temples, a bit more careworn, sat by Donna's bedside, his hands folded over a book that rested on his lap. His head snapped up and his gaze alit upon Seith. He frowned but then a smile broadened his lips.

"Well if it isn't old Stinky. How are you doing?"

Seith could only laugh. "No one's called me that in more than a decade."

"I never forget my friends," Varric said.

His chest tight, Seith closed the distance between them then came to a halt at the foot of Donna's bed. She was breathing deeply, evenly, and though pale, looked far healthier than she had in a long, long time.

"Will she be all right?" he asked.

"Old Morris is a good one. Says she just needs rest."

"Have you spoken to her yet?" Seith asked. For some reason, his throat was so thick he could barely speak.

"No, but I'll be here when she awakens."

"Why did you never..." Seith was too tired, too overwhelmed to rely on subtly.

Varric shook his head. "I had no idea. Ceren, her mother…" He glanced at Donna then looked up at Seith again. "She never told me. All this time, and I had to hear it from Nightingale, and by the time I responded, you lot were missing in action. When that bird came, that you'd been found…"

"You came through to Skyhold immediately." Seith allowed himself a chuckle. "Donna's going to be so pissed when she wakes up and you're sitting right here."

"You think?"

Seith shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know. She used to tell me that we'd go to Kirkwall, and she'd make an appointment to see the viscount, and then she'd drop the jar of bees on you just to see the look on your face. She writes books, you know?"

"Hey?" Varric's smile was genuinely pleased.

"Something about a Bard's Gambit and a Dracolisk's Den."

"What? _The Bard's Gambit_ and _In the Dracolisk's Den_ ," Varric said.

"You've read them?"

"Of course. They were a bit raw, but solid, for juvenilia."

Seith snorted. "Shit's weird."

"I saw what you did there."

"Indeed, well." Seith shifted from foot to foot, suddenly uncomfortable, as if he was intruding on someone else's story. "I must be off. Tell Donna I'll check in on her soon." Not a lie, exactly.

"Will do. See you later at the Herald."

"Sure." Now _that_ was a lie.

They shook hands and Seith spared one last glance at Donna.

"Dareth shiral, ma falon," he murmured before he hurried from the infirmary.

As much as it felt as if his heart was tearing in two, this had to be done.

Seith hurried down the passage, dropping his barriers, drawing hard on his mana and leaning hard on his sorrow for the blade of willpower he'd need to tear the Veil once more. The air before him began to shimmer, and by the time he reached the disturbance, the rift was just wide enough for him to step through to the other side.

Author's note:  
Thank you to all of you who've followed me on this journey. Donna and Seith have become dear to me, and have helped remind me why it is that I spin stories. This is our friends' "happy for now". As for what happens after, I'll leave that up to your imaginings.


End file.
